


The Calm Beneath The Waves

by WonderAss



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), The Dark Knight Rises
Genre: Action, Alternate Canon, Canon Related, Character Death, Character Study, Depression, Dream Sequences, Enemies to Lovers, Gore, Incest, M/M, Mental Illness, Mystery, POV Multiple, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Police Brutality, Romance, Self-Harm, Sex, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Smut, Suicide, Thriller, Torture, anti-Semitism, mentions of:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:51:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 67
Words: 400,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8407603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAss/pseuds/WonderAss
Summary: From petty crime to deep-rooted corruption, Gotham has always been a hotbed for violence. When an unknown terror threatens to tear the city apart from within, its people are forced to reconcile that their home may be destroyed for good. Batman has disappeared. Bane wants to liberate Gotham. Talia al Ghul has different ideas. Budding detective John Blake, wanting nothing more than to leave a little good in the world, becomes caught in their push and pull. He'll have to contend with old enemies, unexpected allies and more questions than he could ever hope to ask about the city that raised him.The city he's trying to protect from itself.





	1. The Kidnapping

**Author's Note:**

> These mark the first few chapters of a short fanfiction I wrote four years ago. It was originally done in response to a prompt and eventually got lengthier than I could have imagined!
> 
> It was never finished, however. So I'm picking up where I left off and I'm going to see this very strange and unlikely relationship through to the end. While I wasn't a **huge** fan of the film or series at large, there were enough elements I liked _and_ disliked to make me want to create my own spin.

Quiet. Dark. Dusty. Still. Close. Confining. Painful.

Blake's mind processed this information like a computer rebooting, sensations blinking and fading into place. It was slower than his thoughts could get a grip on, still colored they were with a leftover panic.

_'Where...'_

A sputter of recognition. His hands were bound behind him...and he was on his knees. He blinked once, twice, waiting for the darkness to tell him something. Edges formed reluctantly in the black, a picture bleeding outwards into shapes he could recognize. Smooth walls. A stone floor, dirty and bland, broken only intermittently by a nondescript table or a cot. A large sack shoved under the bed. A pair of boots against the far wall. A door to the side of his vision ajar, light falling through the crack in a weak, fine line of yellow.

"...am I?"

He coughed. Licking his lips, he tasted dry skin and blood. More sputters of thought.

Gordon. Bruce Wayne's manor. The kidnapping. Selina Kyle.

It was all scrambled out of order-he could hardly remember his own name for the throbbing that had decided to wake up alongside his five senses. An attempt to wriggle his arms was rewarded by pained chafing, his wrists having been rubbed raw from the braided rope cruelly wrapped around them, making his hands feel like swollen, meaty gloves. Distantly, a memory of being shoved against a brick wall by men in red bandanas resurfaced, then sank beneath the more current concern of pain.

It didn't distract him for long, though. His legs were unbound.

Moving away from the wall where he'd been propped like a decoration (just a few feet from the bed, he noted sourly), he stood up.

Bad idea.

He crashed to the floor, needles shooting up his legs with a ferocity that seemed unreal. _'FUCK.'_ Without his hands to catch him, his jaw and shoulder took the abuse. He bit his tongue. Blood trickled down his chin.  


_'...Great.'_

Panic rose through his chest, something he wasn't used to, not even as a rookie cop. He swallowed hard, metaphorically linking it to his fear. It was like swallowing gravel. Laying on his side parallel to the door, he bit back his curses and shifted his legs in an attempt to wake them.

While the needles chomped and scrambled up and down his body fitfully, he racked his brain for more information. Red bandanas? What got him to that point in the first place? He had been…walking. No, driving. No, walking. Through an airport. He found Selina Kyle. She was trying to escape, dressed in a slick suit and wide-brimmed hat. Classy enough to command respect, minimalistic enough to blend in anywhere. He'd spotted her in an instant.

_"Girl's gotta eat."_

_"And you've got an appetite."_

He tried to move his hands again. Anything, even rubbed raw bloody skin was better than these damn pins and needles-

_"Maybe it's not you I'm running from."_

_"Then who are you running from? Bane?"_

He used his shoulder for leverage. There were bruises, but he couldn't figure out where yet.

_"What do you know about Bane?"_

_"That you should be just as afraid of him as I am."_

He stopped squirming. Bane.

The men in red bandanas...explosions. Running through an alleyway. He was going to report to Gordon. He had seen what the terrorists were planning. He got intercepted. A gloved hand grabbed him, his elbow connected with their face, he kept running, a gun went off, it might have been his-

He struggled to sit up. The pins and needles had ebbed, but were replaced with an infuriating weakness, like his bones had been replaced with jello. Gordon had spoken of a masked man, an underground army...

"Oh, shit."

Nobody believed him. Even with his astonishing record, they'd laughed at him, and asked him sarcastically if he'd seen giant alligators, too.

They wouldn't be looking here. He was the only one that could report back with concrete information, back up Gordon's claim. With a new surge of will he pulled himself up onto his knees, yanking at his bonds. The dark filled with his short, harsh pants. There was still time. He hadn't heard a single guard outside of this cell, or room, or wherever the fuck he was, and even though he was disarmed, he still had his fists...

One wrist pulled through the rope, the stiff string dragging clinging flesh. He ground his teeth and paused, briefly, horribly, then tugged again, with wild abandon.

It was almost a minute before he noticed the room had darkened again.

Blake stopped. Someone stood in the doorway.

He held his breath.

"... _John Blake_."


	2. Fight Or Flight

A massive form flooded the doorway, light struggling in vain to capture and distinguish the silhouette through the cracks. The only sound following his name was a slow, hoarse breathing. Like a deer in headlights, Blake was stunned stiff in his uncomfortable half-upright position on the floor. He couldn't make out his face through the shadow, but he knew who this was.

"What are you doing down there? There is a perfectly good bed to your right."

Blake gaped at him. But only for a moment.

"…Why the hell am I here…? Why didn't you kill me? Where the _hell_ am I?!" He hated the shrill rasp of his voice, but tried to make up for it in sheer anger and indignation. He wasn't afraid. Mostly.

Bane's chuckle filtered through his words. Blake clamped his mouth shut, attempting to sit up straighter.

"Good questions, detective. I, however, cannot answer them all."

He walked inside. The man was tall, but it was more than that which made Blake recoil, despite every instinct clamoring to attack. Every movement, every _step_ was a lesson in fluidity, hearkening a big cat slinking through its forest. All he was doing was making his way to the cot, and yet, Blake couldn't shake the feeling he had just survived a near-death experience.

Bane settled on the edge of the mattress with a barely audible grunt. Leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, he set his gaze on the man before him. The light fell across his face and torso now, giving Blake a good look at the person responsible for Gotham's current grip on terror.

The mask...he'd never seen anything like it. It was designed like the twisted jaws of a dead animal, wrapped down his head and over his mouth and nose like a silver and black muzzle. An appropriate metaphor, he would later realize. Shaven bald, the only hint to his bulky physique were his broad shoulders and thick, gloved hands peeking out of a high-collared black leather jacket.

What really grabbed his attention, though, were his eyes. Never in a million years would he have guessed a terrorist, a murderer, a mythical masked man, to look so...somber.

"You are here because a friend found it a more useful fate than your death."

Blake swallowed, carefully, in case he needed to use his voice again. He was already thrown off. This man was full of contradictions. Those sad, soulful eyes warred with a voice he could only describe as...disturbingly posh.

"So a psychopath can have friends. I've learned a lot today."

Bane smiled. Supposedly. His eyes crinkled, then he fisted a hand beneath his chin, not unlike a child observing an amusing plaything.

"You may learn a lot more, if you want."

Blake sat up, sliding onto his butt and crossing his legs. His chin throbbed plaintively as he spoke, and he tried to ignore the slight slur of his bleeding tongue. "Sure, I'll bite. So a friend of yours thought I'm more useful tied up in a room? Who's this friend, then?"

"Oh, she is a friend of yours, too."

Blake's mouth twisted. Mind games. Typical.

"You know, for the leader of a terrorist organization, you aren't very unique."

"Hm?"

"You're going to have to try harder than cryptic nonsense to distract me."

"So you do not know Miranda?"

"Miranda wh-"

Blake froze. Miranda...Miranda, why did that sound familiar? The word 'event' tickled at the corner of his mind. Not even a week ago, he had met Gordon at one such event, so the precedence in his mind was still sharp. They discussed Batman. Gordon had been touching the broken spotlight, fondly. It wasn't just an event, though. It was a ball...a masquerade ball? No, a charity ball. Some sort of rich, stuffy fundraiser used to fuel the one percent's ego. Not his thing. That much he caught in passing during his nightly rounds. The head of the ball, he recalled his co-worker having to keep an eye on her...A Miranda...Tate? She was influential. Chair of some powerful board. Could she be...?

His detective's mind pieced together the puzzle with deft hands, even though he couldn't quite make out the picture. He threw out a line.

"Miranda Tate?"

"As you know of her."

"Then who is she?"

"...A friend."

Blake wriggled his hands surreptitiously. The bonds were starting to loosen, thanks to his frantic struggling a few minutes prior. He knew he couldn't take Bane. The man was too big, huge even, he was injured, he had no idea where he was...but he also knew that he could beat him further, starve him, torture him and he would be in even less shape to fight back and escape. He had to act now.

"Well, that's good to know. So, did she save me? Or is she in on it, too?"

"That is up to you."

"...Maybe."

As Bane's brows quirked, in an expression he couldn't read, Blake tore his hands free from his bonds and bolted toward the open door.


	3. Sink Or Swim

He ignored the weakness in his legs, the bruises pounding a rhythm into his brow and neck and stomach, the fear that had taken residence in his chest like an uninvited guest. He ran. He tore through the corridor, past guards too surprised to do more than shout at him and ready their guns, a single thought in his head.

_'If I don't escape now, Gotham will burn.'_

Hallways and crooked rooms and rubble greeted him in a smudged blur. He had no idea where he was going. There must be an exit somewhere. Somewhere. He almost turned into a closed room, stumbling and spinning on the spot at the last second in order to keep his momentum. A gun went off. Curses joined the ricochet's echo. He spotted an armory, filled with guns, explosives and probably much worse, if he stayed around to inspect. He nearly clotheslined himself on a tank's cannon, poking out of a dark hole seemingly blown into a wall just to house it.

It was a minute of more running before his boot slipped in a puddle as he rounded a corner, nearly unbalancing him facefirst into rushing water. A sewer? So he was underground, then. That made sense. Perfect. He could figure out where to go from here. If it was too 'useless' to kill him, then he could bank on the guards exercising restraint. It was his only hope at this point.

The gap across the sewer was six, maybe seven feet wide. Risking a few steps backwards, toward the voices and footsteps echoing down the hall in his direction, Blake double-checked over his shoulder. He had only seconds. With a lunge, he took the leap of faith over the chasm of rushing water.

He didn't make it.

Blake's feet slipped on the edge of the other side, his grip compromised by water and grime and sending him sliding into the sewer water. Flailing and gasping, he scrabbled at the stone as the water grabbed his jacket with cold, angry hands and attempted to drag him down the hole.

"No! Fuck, _no!_ " Nails caught and tore in an effort to slow himself down. The water was too fast, the stone too slippery. It was sheer dumb luck in the last moment, when he saw the arc above him and the darkness just inches behind him, his elbow managed to hook in the corner between the ground and the corner of the stone arc. Where he would, at any second, slide and fall and drown.

Panic became his friend. It gave meaning to his grip in a rush of adrenaline. He ground his bleeding fingers into the grooves of wet stone and yanked his body forward, upward. He pulled himself out of the water and onto his side where he gasped and sputtered and tried to edge away from the roaring spray. He looked across the water at the dozen or so thugs that gathered, their guns cocked and faces contorted in anger and hurt pride.

Okay. Time to keep running. He rolled over and stood, leveling inches away from Bane's chest.

Blake jerked backwards, barely suppressing a scream. The man's hands rested along the collar of his jacket, as if he were adjusting it. He wasn't breathing heavily, or moving, or giving any indication he chased after him. In fact, it was like he had been waiting there the entire time.

Anger fed power into Blake's arm as he swung.

His fist connected with the side of Bane's face. Pain screamed into his knuckles as he hit the mask instead, the dull thud sounding off like a chime. The guards murmured and shifted from across the chasm. A few cocked their guns. Blake ignored them.

He swung again and again. Bane's head snapped from side to side. His step faltered. _'He's a punching bag. A big, masked punching bag. You tore a hole through one in basic training. You can do it again.'_

His knuckle snagged on one of the silver tubes on his mask, the skin tearing and dotting Bane's face with blood. His eyes were open, and staring, through his punches. It sent a chill down Blake's spine.

_'Why isn't he hitting back...?'_

Blake was wheezing now. Running, swallowing water, his bruises...they were taking a toll on his stamina and fast. Bane still hadn't retaliated. He swung again, and to his horror, felt his body following. Bane's shadow, flickering against the opposite wall, shifted.

"You hold nothing back. Ah, the resolve of the young."

He switched tactics. Jumping back just an inch, Blake whirled forward in a flying kick, connecting with Bane's chest. It was like kicking an oak. Bane snatched Blake's ankle and flicked his wrist, sending him spinning and slamming onto his back. Air rushed out of his lungs. Bane stood over him. "You leave yourself wide open. Don't compromise your strength with impulsivity." Like a teacher admonishing his student.

Blake shoved his hands on the floor beside his head and flipped onto his feet. He whipped his fists in front of his face. He wasn't going to listen to the cooing advice of a madman-he did, however, forget to keep his guard up. He ran a hand along his mouth. More blood.

"Good! You learn fast. How fast, I wonder-" In a blur, Bane was in front of him again, grabbing his arms and shoving them out of the way, his knee coming up through the open space into his stomach. Blake's mouth opened, but no air came out this time. He overcompensated in violent hacks and coughs, falling backwards in a clumsy stumble. Where his opponent should've taken the chance to hit him again, while he struggled to see three inches in front of him, Bane tut-tutted instead, circling him slowly.

"Hands up. Always up."

Blake wheezed. He held an arm up, cautiously, the other still gripping his sore stomach.

"You'll never save your city like that."

"Fuck you." Blake hissed.

A moment of silence. Even the thugs on the other side of the drain seemed to be holding their breath. Then Bane struck him again. One moment he stood, his hands upon his collar in the mockery of a gentlemen, then he was in front of him, driving gloved knuckles into his windpipe and sending him choking to the floor. It's like he had been trained to hedge bushes, for all his rigorous academy practice was serving him right now. He'd cough and stumble to his feet, letting anger build up inside him like a furnace, only to be struck down again by Bane's calm ferocity.

Two. Three. Four times he fell. Blood spilled from his nose. His head rang. Vaguely, in the back of his throat, he could feel a tooth. Bane stood, as still as ever, and held a hand out to him.

"Come on, then. Rescue your city. Be the savior that everyone sees while they huddle in their destroyed houses and quail from the riots that tear your streets apart with bitter teeth."

Blake felt dread drip cold down his spine. He was out of his league. And so was everyone else. His purpose faltered, and to his unending disgust, one that would follow him for days to come, he took a shivering step backwards.

His enemy shook his head mournfully.

"...Already?"

Blake tried to steady his breath. He balled his fists. The fear warred with anger. He didn't know what to do.

So he charged again, for the last time.

"Shame."

Bane sidestepped gracefully, grabbing him and holding on tightly. Blake twisted his arm in an effort to dislodge him, but to no avail. The man's hand was like a vice. No matter how he wrenched and twisted, he stayed right where he was, half-suspended by his shoulder.

Fingers dug with purpose into the tender, bruised skin between his neck and collar. Blake stifled a scream.

Then, to his horror, another hand took his elbow, and he felt the bone and tendon connecting his shoulder to his arm begin to pop.

He tried kicking at his legs, grappling at his bulky arms. Torn nails clawed ineffectually at leather. He pulled. He tugged. Nothing happened. The man's grasp had reduced him to a breached fish, flailing and gasping on the wet floor.

Bane tilted his head.

Blinking through the water dripping from his hair and the pain hazing his vision, the last thing Blake saw were sad, still eyes glittering down at him. Eyes that, in the next moment, blurred into a red fog as his shoulder separated from his arm and sent every nerve in his body screaming.

"...Sleep now."


	4. Deshi, Basara

...Years.

It had been many years since Bane held someone in his arms like this.

As Blake's head thumped limply on his shoulder, as he made his way down the tunnel and past each room and through his subordinates who whispered and shifted in confusion, his vision flickered in the slow burning flame of memory. It curled and licked at his mind, his very sight, until he could hardly see three feet in front of him. The gray and black stone transformed into a delusion-what he thought he left behind long ago.

The pit. The plague. Dirt and sweat. Disease and the dying. Fights. Riots. Blood. Chanting. Crying. Hope. Grief. Deshi. Deshi. Basara. _Basara._

It crashed into him so headily he almost stumbled. He barely lay the young man down on the cot before stepping away into the dark and taking in a deep, steadying breath. The drugs that filtered through his mask and numbed his system couldn't touch the whirlwind of emotions that had been kicked up like dust within his mind. Fear tumbled into regret melted into sorrow chilled into dread. In and out...in and out...he breathed.

Blake's cough turned his gaze again. He curled up on the dirty mattress, his back rising in painful and unsteady breaths, his subconscious minding his dislocated shoulder.

Black hair shifted to a fuzzy barely-brown. The damp police uniform faded away into a ragged, dirty shift. The coughs became thin and reedy and weak.

_"Banen...? Banen, I'm thirsty..."_

Bane knelt by the bed.

He pressed his hand to Blake's cheek. His fingers fell on the bruise that puffed his eye.

Just as soon as it started, it ended. The cold sensation snapped him to his senses, alerting him to the guard standing in the doorway. His brows were furrowed, trying to decipher the scene before him. Taking in a long rasping breath, Bane offered a warning he rarely granted.

"Leave."

He vanished, and Bane was alone.


	5. A Spot Of Tea

"Good to see you, Blake. You enjoying the non-stop thrill ride of being a Gotham beat cop?"

"Yeah. It's better than filing papers all day. In fact, no. I think that'd be more exciting. Got any paper?"

Banter was one of the few things that kept Blake sane during those long uneventful hours of patrol. There were only so many comments about the weather and the current roster of big-budget action flicks you could make in a day. It's not that his partner was a bore. Not at all. In fact, maybe it was him, for steering clear of deeper topics to begin with.

His peer pulled out a cigarette and lit it sneakily. He wasn't supposed to smoke, but Blake pretended he didn't see anything. It was freezing, the snow falling early for a September, and a quick light, if nothing else, warmed you up. Cars pushed sluggishly through half-paved roads of slush and ice. People huddled together at bus stops, their hands permanently in their pockets, their bags, in the gloves of others. The atmosphere was sleepy and defiant. There were places to be, but the chill that settled in everyone's hair and bones made everything an ordeal.

Rubbing his hands, he reached inside the car and grabbed the warm thermos in the cup holder. He had no idea what was in it, but it was damn cold out.

He brought it to his mouth. Earl grey.

"Hey, is this yours, Jeff?"

"Yes. From my own crop."

"You...grow tea?"

Blake licked his lips slowly. The heat moved down his throat like a warm kiss.

"...I didn't...know that..."

A cup tilted to his mouth. Porcelain. Not plastic. Strange. Without another thought, he drank, floating between consciousness and the buzz of a lucid dream. A robust fragrance reached his nose. He blinked a few times, without seeing anything. Weights dangled from his lashes. It was too difficult to fight, so he let them sink closed. The only thing that didn't seem hard was drinking. He was so thirsty. He leaned his head forward, plaintively, taking a bigger sip than the last. He couldn't move his arms again. ...Again...

...Again...?

With a start, he jerked. Drops of hot liquid hit his face. They stung harder than usual. Everything came into sharp, dizzying focus.

Bane's face hovered before him.

"You can learn more if you want."

Blake coughed and gulped, trying to keep the liquid from making a home in his lungs. He was back in the room again, that much was clear. What wasn't really clear was seeing Bane on a stool pouring tea into a mug. The image was so bizarre he was reduced to staring stupidly, his mouth open slightly. A small fire cracked and popped in a furnace he didn't notice the first time around, its orange light bouncing sharply off a stained kettle that'd seen better days. Bane dumped old tea out of a strainer into the fire. Everything smelled of leaves and wood and dust.

Once he was sure he could breathe, he cleared his throat and attempted to speak.

"Y-You...gave me tea...?"

He laughed, though it sounded more like a giggle. Goddammit. Even his own voice was screwing him. Bane observed him over his shoulder.

"This gets better and better, doesn't it...?"

"Tea is good for you."

"Thanks, but I prefer coffee."

"Jitters and bad breath won't heal your wounds." Bane knelt before him again and held the mug steaming before Blake's mouth. The young man leaned away, but kept his eyes on him. A growl crept into his throat.

"...Heal me?" He rolled his shoulder experimentally. A slow, stiff burn responded. "This is a pretty shitty way to heal someone." Bane's eyes crinkled again. Although Blake's throat cried for liquid, anything to soothe the sandy texture that got worse by the minute, he soundly ignored it. "So, you like tea? You're not drinking any. You gonna poison me?"

"That would have been a lot of effort. You were already doing a very good job of drowning yourself."

Blake moved his hands. They were tied above his head, attached to something on the wall. It wasn't comfortable, but as long as he kept still, the pain in his shoulder was next to nothing. This time, they were chains.

"You didn't answer my question."

"No."

"No what?"

He sounded thoughtful. "I am not poisoning you."

"Then drink some. Give me a little peace of mind here, huh? I'm tied up to your fucking wall, I'm a bloody pulp and I need to take a piss. Least you can do is savor the moment with me." In the back of Blake's mind, he noted his sarcasm was coming on a little strong. Better than confronting the uncertainty he was starting to feel. He messed up bad. _Really_ bad. He should've braved that sewer. He should've held his breath and dove in and hoped he didn't hit his head too hard on the way down. He should've-

"Later."

Bane set the cup down on the floor and stood, reaching over his head to work out his bonds. Blake stiffened in anticipation. He was going to let him go? Already? _Now?_ He didn't have a plan in mind! Fight? Flight? Both worked out great last time. So great he ended up in chains being fed tea by a terrorist. But he had to do something. This could be his second, and last, chance.

"There is a bathroom to your right."

Blake blinked. He'd been so lost in his thoughts he didn't hear him. His arms fell to his sides, suddenly. He clapped a hand to his shoulder.

" _Mmph._ What?"

Bane peered at him.

"Out the door...to your right."

Blake watched him edgily, rubbing the bone. He could move his arm, at least. The bruises and scrapes were starting to get nasty, but nothing was broken, so far as he could tell. He took a moment to flex his legs, wincing at how his knees popped, then made his way to his feet and began to walk down the room. He could still run. Would he expect it?

He was almost to the door when Bane's hand snatched his chin and spun him around. Blake stumbled. His face was dragged upwards and close, so close he could count the lights reflected in the man's eyes.

"Run again...and I will do more than dislocate your shoulder."

Blake's breath shook erratically, each pant fogging and fading the metal of his mask. The man's fingers slid down his jaw to fully cup his face. There was no doubt that with one motion, one tireless effort, one afterthought Bane could snap his neck and leave his frothing body on the floor. Blake's temper quailed in light of self-preservation. He nodded. Just barely. Just enough to keep his pride.

Bane's thumb moved beneath his eye, almost imperceptibly, and lingered over the bruise that swelled there. Blake's focus was dragged unwillingly to his eyes, as much as he tried to look at the mask instead, or the wall behind him, or anything else. Bane wasn't looking at him. The moment hung in the air, awkward and strange and more frightening than anything he cared to recall. Then Bane's fingers fell from his face and he turned to the furnace, stoking the fire silently.

In a numb daze, Blake walked out of the room and made his way to the right of the hall. The guards didn't so much as glance at him, preoccupying themselves with cards and muttered banter. Ever cautious, he kept his footsteps quiet and stayed in the shadows. He found the stall, more a dirty hole in a closet than anything else, and unzipped his fly. It was at least a minute before he went, and it felt like a few minutes until he took another breath.

He lost count of how long he stared at the dirty stone wall.


	6. Strange Solitude

"You give so much to Gotham..."

Blake wasn't sure how many days had passed.

Then again, he spent a lot of it sleeping. Bane had stopped tying him up, once he figured out that running had moved down his list of priorities, and left him alone for hours at a time. His thugs would occasionally peer inside the room, shove food in or stand about on watch. Blake had taken these quiet opportunities to doze into sick, fitful sleeps. He was no stranger to these slow, agonizing situations; he'd never forgotten having to wait out a hostage situation in the bitter cold for over a day, only to end up breaking into a bank in order to catch the kidnappers. Gem, that one. This exertion was nothing new, or even unwelcome. It kept him sharp. But this...

"...When it has only failed you in return."

This was bizarre.

Bane had taken to visiting him every day (night?), often when the light filtering through the cracked ceiling of the sewer walls was dim. And he would talk. No beatings or torture, no threats or even interrogations. He'd sit on the mattress or lean against the wall by the door, and, in that strange perky voice, talk. He'd ask questions that were more base musings, rather than the top secret information he'd expect he'd want. One time he even asked how he was doing.

Blake nursed a cup of tea in his hands, propping up the wall as far away from the masked man as he could. He refused to get complacent; escape was always on his mind. His injuries, however, took center stage. His body was a swollen, throbbing mess and any attempt to deny it was swiftly reprimanded every time he moved. So he sipped, savoring each moment of relief, and allowed those thoughts to sit on the backburner of his mind and simmer quietly.

"That a question or a statement...?"

"An observation. You have been in the force for years, which means you have seen firsthand how little the city has changed." He wore a different coat now, some sort of sheepskin material, with a wide white collar that would've looked charmingly rustic on anyone else.

Blake huffed, keeping the mug to his face where his expression could remain indistinct. "Yeah? More like it's because people like you keep finding your way in." He drained the contents, then poured himself another cup. Bane still didn't drink any, instead taking the kettle and filling it with more water before hanging it above the fire. "You want to call the kettle black, that's your business. But you start blowing up sewers and attacking people, it becomes mine."

He sighed out a hot breath and ran his nails along the rim of the cup. A question nipped and bit. It was pointless to ask and he knew it.

"...Why are you doing this?"

A _clink_. Two. The man stokes the fire ritualistically. Occasionally flicks an ember that lands on the wooly coat ruff. Somehow Blake can tell he's musing over his question rather than ignoring him.

"...Justice."

Blake scoffs, then immediately regrets it as pain flares in his chest. The bruises were starting to die down, but they would still ache at the slightest provocation. Taking a big gulp of tea to numb its bite he repeats the word, bitterly.

"Justice."

The man glances at him over his shoulder, brow quirked.

"A word you should be familiar with." He murmurs, not quite mocking. "Officer." Definitely mocking.

Blake raises the cup to his lips, then frowns when he's greeted by air. Shifting upwards with a groan he reaches for the kettle. It sits just outside of his reach, silver sheen taunting him with each flicker of the fire. "You're dodging the question. Again. You're not exactly _mysterious_ , Bane." He allowed a dark note to enter his voice. "Just weird."

With a shift the hulking man plucks the kettle from its stand and holds it out to him. Hesitantly the younger man reaches for it, never taking his eyes off that terrible mask, its ugly little details and polished sheen. Where did he even _get_ such a thing? Bane's bare fingers brush against his own as he grabs the kettle, so brief as to be unnoticeable but sending a jolt up the man's spine. He grips the handle harder than he means to, tries to ignore the trembling in his arm as he doses the steaming water into his ornate little teacup and watches the leaves rise to the top.

"It seems you have a different idea of what justice looks like, John Blake."

Blake raises his eyes tiredly. The man loved coaxing him down verbal rabbit holes, asking questions _just_ vague enough to perk his interest and keep him crawling. It was fucked up. He was no doubt his plaything in-between arson and murder, something to grab his attention when he had to wait out some situation from somewhere within the ruined confines of a chaotic city. Not that he had any damn clue as to the details. He had been in his cell for days now. Not nearing weeks, not with his sense of time...but getting there.

Which made it worse that he _was_ curious.

He'd sooner dip his head into the furnace three feet away than admit it. The fact the man had sneaked a small army into Gotham, high-strung and heavily patrolled though the city was, was no small feat. Doubly so for the fact he had somehow constructed himself as a sort of folklorish boogeyman, even putting Commissioner Gordon in the spot of looking like a doddering fool chasing shadows. His stomach clutched at the memory. He hoped the man was okay. He had barely gotten a look at him before one of Bane's goons struck him in the head. His hairline ached as if in response.

Gotham had been through plenty of shit over the past few decades. Fear was as common as the smoke in the air. No, what really worried him was the _denial_.

He spat out a leaf. What was there to admit, anyway? It was the same curiosity a person got when flipping on a documentary about the world's most notorious criminal minds or opening up a dimestore mystery book. Wanting to know where the rabbit hole lead, the basic human failing of being unable to see more than their hands in pitch black. Psychology 101 shit.

That was all.

"You're not even going after the people that need to be put away. I have a different idea of what justice looks like because I don't preoccupy myself with fearmongering and TMNT-style hideouts." He muttered, running fingers through his hair. It'd have to do until he got his hands on a comb. _If_ he ever got his hands on a comb again.

"True...it seems you're far too busy distributing parking tickets and arresting the homeless for lingering where they're not allowed." Bane responded lightly.

Blake froze in mid-sip. "Look, that's not-"

"Such hard workers...yet so _much_ destruction." He continued to crouch on that small stool, sounding almost bored. "From a toxic underbelly do more children spawn, only to become the progenitors of another generation of hazards and vagabonds. Evidence doesn't lie, John Blake." Like a punchline to a joke. "You and your brood make poor mother hens." Bane finished, chin in one hand.

"Kiss my ass. You don't even live here." He wanted to hit himself, but the situation was too strange not to be honest. The city had always been notorious for its crime scene and constant creation of identity-conscious criminals. Even people who had never visited knew about Two-Face and his fall from grace. The Joker, his masked lackeys and the destruction they caused in a matter of days. The 'mysterious' cat burglar giving anyone with more than two pennies to rub together a run for their money. Literally.

A part of him wondered if Selina Kyle could take Bane. Another part of him cringed at the thought. He could only imagine how easily the man could crush her skull in. Make it look like a minor accident. No wonder she chose the high road. His stomach churned guiltily. In retrospect, he should've let her run.

"Gotham has been floundering in dark waters for decades." Bane mused as he tossed one last chunk of wood into the fire. It spat and darkened almost immediately. "It has nowhere else to go but down."

"And where's this pessimism coming from?" Blake muttered under his breath. His temper was taking a beating. Wherever the man was going it couldn't be good.

"Your optimism is refreshing, if misguided." He said with a grunt, pushing his hands onto his knees as he stood up.

Blake's shoulders stiffened. He was treading on touchy territory. Bane's eyes glittered in the heat's glaze as he stood up, fading into the shadow as he made his way to the far end of the wall. There was something unnatural about the way he filled up a room. It made him shrink back into his corner, even though the man was feet away.

A vague click and light flooded the cramped space, crushing his eyes momentarily shut. There was a television in here the entire time? It flashed in a sudden block of white, so foreign to his underused eyes that the light seemed to burn.

Windows shattering. Doors being kicked open. Chaos so frantic it was hard to make sense of the blurs and shadows clipping the screen. Crowds clogged the streets, a human traffic moving slowly but with purpose toward the City Hall. Signs in the air like flags, video editing too shaky to get a good read. Voices raised in fury. Bane leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, face indistinct where the fire's glow couldn't reach.

"Not much, in the grand scheme of things." He murmured over the fuzzy audio. "But it is a spark that will create a great fire." The detective hardly heard him for the roaring in his ears, staring at the television in a stupor.

"What are you doing?" Blake whispered, the cup almost dropping from his hands as he read the headlines. _'The Force A Fraud?' 'Where Is Commissioner Gordon?' 'Is This The End?'_

The man didn't turn away from the TV, his back flickering like a ghost. The reality of Blake's isolation hit him like a brick. The knowledge he should've brought to Gordon. The people floundering without a clue of just what they were dealing with. The fact he might die without anyone having the faintest clue to where he is.

"What the **fuck** are you doing?"


	7. To Cut Too Deep

"Bane."

Only when she spoke his name did it hold deeper meaning.

He hardly remembered his birth name. There was nothing he could have used it for, deep within the confines of the pit where each breath was better spent fighting a losing battle. Names didn't connect him with his fellow prisoners, resigned they were to being as meaningless and cold as dust, nor to a family that had no use for him since the day he was born. His mother had viewed him a piteous burden, obligated to his care out of some mysterious duty he never fully understood as a boy. Talia liberating him, descended from the great white circle like a crow onto his still-living body, was when he had finally found use for such a thing.

Behnam had been nobody. Hardly more than an animal, later another mouth in the pit, beholden to air and water and food and nothing more. Behnam, in the clumsy and honest tongue of a child, had become Banen. A protector from would-be assailants and disease alike. When he stepped out into the light and encountered the outside world for the first time in a lifetime, Banen had become Bane. And so it was.

"Bane means to ward away in English. Ra's told me." She didn't call him father. Not yet. "Be the bane of good or evil." Talia had said to him as he recovered, wise beyond her years as she sat on a stool beside his cot, feet dangling just an inch from the floor. "Whichever is needed in this messy world."

She stood amid the mercenaries on the damp sewer stone, careful not to step in any of the grooves or puddles the darkness held as she observed their work. They were respectful toward her, the urgent candor of their voices fading whenever she drew near. Barsad said little and permit her draw close to their weapons storage without the slightest hint of fuss. Even Salim's propensity for chatter died down to a suggestion, his smile careful as he sat on a pile of discarded clothes and gradually reloaded each assault rifle. Only the occasional nod or tilt of the head revealed her thoughts. Then she turned to him.

"You look well." Talia said, walking through his gunman to where he stood. They parted like water, careful to avert their eyes.

Bane looked down at her as she folded her arms in her coat, shivering just slightly in the chill of the sewer. Her hands moved anxiously, as if warring with some inconclusive decision. It was another moment before he realized she was inspecting his mask with darting eyes.

"It functions as it was meant to." He said. Her gaze steadied and she smiled, just a little. An expression that no doubt haunted the waking dreams of the men and women she worked with.

"Come."

She walked past the cluster of mercenaries with a brisk pace, heading down the dark, winding tunnels to one of their many makeshift storage rooms. "Bane..." Salim started, attempting to sit up even with his project still in his lap; the man was flanked by his peers, anxious and stiff at the young woman's sudden appearance. "We're ready to start whenever you-" He halted when Bane glanced at him, walking after Talia with purpose. With her schedule so thoroughly entwined with the fates of thousands of Gotham residents, she was kept from his company more than he liked. They could wait.

"How is the council faring? The company must be quite stifling." He said as they entered the room. It was a sparse enclosure, housing hastily gathered scraps of information, supplies and anything that may prove useful beyond a glance. A single lantern sat atop one of the boxes, flame flickering from neglect.

Talia crossed her arms, letting out a haughty sigh now that they were out of sight. "Indeed. A single conversation more about high taxes and I would have poisoned all their drinks at their next great party. Knowing them, it would be the following evening." She paced back and forth, her anxious energy not quite cutting into her composure. "Daggett is growing impatient. Like any politician he is less inclined to think of the long-term good and more about how fast his pockets can be lined in time for his company's upcoming investments. Nothing you didn't already see in South Africa." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Still...his greed has purpose. He will be hungry for options."

"And I shall be his savior at his most desperate." Bane finished, idly moving a hand throughout one of the wooden boxes by the wall. Books, folders, a Bible. He saw Talia smile again out of the corner of his eye.

"Let him continue to think you are partners. His money has been a reliable way of filling in the gaps." She said. "I look forward to his death. It will throw everything into disarray. His investors will scramble to pick up the slack, his businesses will jump ship and search for smoother waters." It was another moment before she spoke, staring at something on the wall. "Smoother waters that will never come."

Bane closed his eyes, welcoming the brief exchange of darkness as he reviewed scenarios in his head. Indignant howls, revving engines, the crunch of bones. Gotham slipping into its signature brand of chaos when faced with thinning options and too many questions without answers. A cacophony ever building to its crescendo. He also looked forward to crushing the man's head in his hands.

"The scientist?" He asked.

"Doing well enough, all things considered."

"And John Blake?"

"That depends."

He opened his eyes, watching her brush hair from her face as she observed her reflection in a dirty mirror. The company of self-styled elite had no doubt instilled conscientious behavior in her. He remembered when she kept her hair as short as possible. Now it swayed past her shoulders, curled at the ends.

She noticed his silence.

"...Are you well?"

"Of course."

She stood to her full height, hardly reaching his chin, and looked him over. It was difficult not to smile. His Talia. He couldn't hide anything from her if he wanted to. She reached a hand up and touched his mask, running delicate fingers along each groove and cord.

"...Do you remember Samson?" She asked, softly. Bane narrowed his eyes.

"I could never forget."

She moved her hands away from his face, reaching into her coat and pulling out something dark and thin. Was that what she had been fussing with before? With a flick of her wrist it glittered in the faint lamplight.

"You still have it." He breathed, staring at the old, chipped knife she held between her fingers. It was a brutal, inelegant thing, somehow fitting and completely inappropriate for a woman of her stature -- made of stone, carved from desperation's hand. It was markedly clean of blood now, but memories had a way of seeming virulently real even after years of neglect.

"I never thanked you."

"You were young."

"I want to thank you now."

Bane touched the blade's ragged edge, fingers too calloused for consequence. Samson was a name forever etched burning in his mind, somehow even more worthless than Behnam -- a haggard man infamous in the pit for his seething nature, he had marked Talia as proxy when she scratched him one day. He claimed she had tried to steal something of his when Banen intervened, screaming loud enough to attract the attention of others nearby. She claimed the same. The word of a child held more weight in his heart, so he had shielded her from retaliation, even as Samson promised to see both of their throats slit come the following morning if his item was not returned. Other prisoners watched in dull fascination. None lifted a finger to help.

She later confessed she _had_ stolen from him, an old pen that still bore trace remnants of ink. Likely a discarded affect from one of the stationed guards above. He bade her hide it away, even as she squalled and defied him, trying to draw patterns onto her palms with varying degrees of success when she thought nobody was looking.

That night Samson had found a way into their cell. Banen had been jerked out of a fitful slumber by Talia's muffled squeaks, making out her thin form hunched against the wall as the man hissed his threats and clamped a hand over her mouth. Even maddened by disease and hunger he was no fool, dragging her through the damaged door to where his fellows slumbered. Taunting Bane into following and risking a riot. His and her life.

Prisoners weren't allowed weapons. Nothing more than their fists and the will to kill. It didn't stop them from trying, however, fashioning objects from hard stone and the clothes on their back like a tragic mockery of history's first cave humans. Banen had attempted a knife from a loosened chunk of stone, using other stones as well as the bars on his cell to wear it down to something thin and sharp. It had taken him many days, perhaps months; he never counted time on the wall in scratches like some of the others did. Unlikely fantasies of digging his knife into the grooves of the wall and hauling himself up to freedom had kept him full when his stomach was empty, the concept of using his captors' own tools against them a haunting philosophy.

He had given that knife to her, Samson's shivering form trapped between his bulky arms in a chokehold as his peers continued to sleep. Instructed her on where to cut to make it look like an accident. He let her keep it. He never wanted her to feel powerless again.

As she stood before him, chin held proudly, he took solace in that he had achieved at least one of his deepest wishes. Vengeance had long since made a home in her eyes. Maybe someday the fanatic light would soften to something darker. With Batman chasing shadows and Gotham slowly following suit, it was another dream that could be realized.

She could tell he was unbalanced by the sentiment. A troubled look overcame her.

"You gave me a knife. More than self-defense. A threat for those who wish to ignore temptation." She said, moving her hand up to touch his cheek. "I took that as a lesson. Whenever my resolve wavers, I take this out..." She tucked it somewhere into her sleeve, a final gesture. "...and remember who gave me the chance to make the world a better place. While a stone blade won't do much in a world of technological marvels and politicians, the threat of a bomb laying Gotham to waste will do just fine."

The dirty mirror was set aside now as she gathered her scarf around her shoulders. "Bruce Wayne had actually showed up to the party." Talia murmured. The masked man looked at her. She had a smile on her face, though it was anything but sweet. "A good actor...but not nearly as good as I am."

"How fares Blake?" She asked as she opened the door. "Besides threatening you with all the crimes you'll be charged with when caught."

"Idealistic. Brash. Likely an impressive fighter to anyone who hadn't already cut their teeth on death." Bane turned away from the musty books. "Commissioner Gordon would have been a more fruitful find, but we'll make do. Insider's information has been easier and easier to come across." He paused, running a hand along the worn leather of an old tome. "I will find out just how good of a replacement he is soon enough."

"Just like you to toy with ego." She said, thoughtfully. "It would be easier for him to tell us what we need to know, seeing as we're so short on time. But to say he's indispensable would be dishonest. ...I trust you'll know what to do." With a wave of her hand she turned on her heel and left. Activity increased outside the room, a ripple of commentary and shuffling feet. They were growing restless.

The cop leaned in the doorway of his cell as he walked by, rubbing his knuckles and staring at the proceedings with a surly eye. Mercenaries leered at the man, amused and irritable in turns. They stood to attention the instant Bane stepped within their periphery, some straightening and others saluting. Only Blake remained unchanged.

For how long, well...they would have to see.


	8. Hands Up, Always Up

"Mind your posture. A shaky foundation will always crumble, no matter how sincere the intentions."

Blake gritted his teeth, moving hands in front of his face and spreading his feet apart ever so slightly.

They were sparring now. While it had only happened a few times over the past handful of days, it was already a routine his mind could cling to -- it wasn't unlike his training sessions during recruitment, shaving off excess weakness with his fellow students and preparing him for 'the worst' in bite-sized intervals. It certainly beat being stuck with little to do besides claw at his own face and count the minutes until his inevitable execution, though the downside was having to listen to a murderer's philosophical ravings. It bothered him just how open Bane was. Anyone else would've been thrilled that Gotham's current demon was willing to spill necessary details to the wrong person, but Blake had long since become used to bad jokes.

Espionage in Kazakhstan, raids in South Africa...the man had really been around. Every fighting session, and subsequent round of questions, were answered either flippantly or with dark humor, drawing him further and further into a spiral of paranoia. Had he really destroyed an entire mining operation from the inside out? Was Gotham honestly going to see the worst social upheaval since Harvey Dent was exposed? Miranda Tate being a member of Wayne Enterprises and being involved with a mercenary gang was still a plot twist he hadn't fully wrapped his head around. Maybe these were lies to distract him. Maybe it _was_ all true.

Either Bane didn't think he was in any position to stop him or he was going to kill him soon.

Every other evening the masked man would walk inside, shrugging off his heavy coat and prompting him to fight with a haughty flick of his hand. Visceral memories of just how he had been humiliated by the sewer's roaring waters would flicker uncomfortably in the back of Blake's mind every time he did, though the mental image was now distant enough he felt an equal amount of anger alongside the fear. Coupled with pent-up energy (there were only so many times a man could punch through blank space to keep himself occupied) it was a demand he was all too happy to meet. Even though the last round he had nearly been knocked out cold with an elbow to the head.

He had never seen a fighting style like the one that had been literally pummeled into him that day. It wasn't _quite_ a martial art, nor was it the flailing violence of a wild animal. The closest he could compare it to were street criminals -- too conscientious to be desperate nobodies, too brutal to have had formal training. It brought up memories he'd rather not recall.

"I'm glad you were brought to me in lieu of the Commissioner. I doubt he would have pranced quite as well." Bane said, muscles glinting in the firelight as they sparred. The man never turned his back to him, at most sidestepping like a panther to better size Blake up every time he moved so much as an inch. His gaze was scrutinizing, impossible to avoid. It was all he could do to keep up with his pace -- even eating decently and getting plenty of sleep fatigue was always nipping at his heels. Whether or not it was the onset of existential depression was, well. Yet another something he'd think about later.

"So you want to kill the Commissioner and me and everyone else and throw the city into chaos. Get in line, pal." Blake said, dropping to the ground as Bane swung a haymaker right above his head. His hair rustled menacingly. "The Joker tried something similar and ended up hauled out like a bad stage act." He struck back with a low jab. It was like hitting the side of a van. Not so much as a flinch. He still had _no_ clue what the guy was made out of.

"Ah, I heard of the Joker." Bane said as he aimed for his stomach, deceptively slow. Blake hunched out of the way. He harbored no delusions -- the man was toying with him. "A wild card in a loaded deck."

"More like a symptom without a cause." Blake responded, flexing his hands; they were starting to stiffen from overuse. He feinted a punch to Bane's right. Swift as a snake the man ducked through the open space and elbowed him in the ribs, eyes never leaving his. Blake had learned a few times prior the man was notoriously hard to fool. Even with the consequences left throbbing in his side it didn't stop him from wanting to try.

"Batman saved us a _lot_ of trouble with that one." He coughed, feeling his side for anything broken. Bruce Wayne's alter-ego was a subject he had tried not to broach in their brief conversations. It was hard not knowing just where the hell he had vanished to, especially since Selina wasn't exactly forthcoming with where or how she had last saw him. Hope was a tenuous little thing, but aside from the clothes on his back and the fireplace he was starting to talk to it was all he really had.

"The Batman." Bane said with a roll of his neck. The word sounded strange on his tongue. He still couldn't place the man's accent. "And just where is he now?"

He was circling again, back to the fire. His form blotted out the light, dampening the already dark room. He swallowed a dry chuckle. It was only a matter of time before Bane started interrogating him. Little did he know just how _little_ he knew. He had ran countless scenarios in and out of his head day in and day out when he didn't have sparring or food to distract him, piecing together scraps of the puzzle and forming the best possible picture he could with jack shit. He'd already come up with a few false trails. Something to get him sniffing in the wrong direction and buy Bruce a little more time to act.

Blake moved to get in view of the light. "Last I saw him he was working with-"

Bane's voice darkened. " _You're not a very good liar._ "

Blake froze in mid-step. _...Shit._ He hadn't even finished. The room suddenly felt very close. He couldn't see Bane's expression in the shadow, though the twitch of his silhouette suggested it was the least of his problems. He balled his hands into fists and covered his head as Bane swung. The impact was enough to send him reeling backwards, forearms screaming from the impact.

"Don't be so easily startled, John Blake." Bane sounded suddenly detached, almost bored, swinging again, _much_ closer. Blake leapt backwards, feeling the air move and his back _thump_ against the cold wall. Nowhere else to run. It was all he could do to roll of the way as another swing aimed right at his head. "If you only manipulate the weak-minded, your tactics will remain about as successful-"

He scrambled as far away as he could, jumping back to his feet and staring past Bane at the fist-sized crater now in the wall. The firelight flickered weakly. Bane flicked dust from his knuckles, turning to look at him with crinkled eyes.

"A poor swimmer... _and_ a poor liar."

Blake felt the tingle of sweat on his neck. While the man had hardly landed more than the occasional bruise on him, it wasn't for lack of trying. He was a mouse tangling with a cat, a particularly cruel one, to boot. Bane looked over the wall, the floor, eyes traveling the length of the cramped space. As if figuring something out.

"Your posture is marred by excess." He said, ponderously. Blake pushed down the helpless anger that threatened to overtake him. He opened his mouth to speak, but it hung open at his next comment.

"And yet a survivor's pragmatism remains. Where was this when you were braving the sewer waters?"

"You're never going to let me live that down, are you..." He managed to say, suddenly breathless. He wasn't sure if he'd ever get used to these constant brushes with death. Bane raised his eyebrows for an answer. An honest one.

Scrapping with the local boys. Fighting off stray dogs. Occasionally getting into an 'altercation' with an adult who should know better. Blake may have trained at the academy for eight months before being taken on, but his real knowledge had always been drilled in by poverty and rejection. Shit, he'd almost gotten kicked right back out for fighting too hard. _Too_ desperately. Like even a minor back-and-forth session was going to be his last. It was a wonder he had been kept on for a career. Then again, maybe not. His superior's voice rang in his head.

_'The hell is wrong with you, rookie?!'_

He had taken too long. Bane moved toward him, menace clear in every step, the faint wheezing of his breath making the hairs on the back of his neck stand rigid. Blake hunched instinctively, curving arms in front of his face and preparing for more punishing blows should his feet fail him. The man was a wall of venom and muscle, precise as a predator, knowing where to hit and where to feint and waste his energy. Blow after blow he struck at his sides, his arms, his head. Blake's breath heaved in steady pants as he ducked and weaved, convicted not to let his stamina fail him, too.

"The one upside to being an orphan." He panted, wet hair clinging to his brow. "I guess."

To his shock, Bane faltered.

Preparing for an uppercut he paused, so imperceptibly it'd be missed by any casual viewer, the faintest hitch in an otherwise flawless machine. To Blake it was a lifeline.

A crazed energy overtook him. With a frustrated scream he rushed the man in a tackle with the full force of his weight, hoping to stagger him enough to get a blow right in one of those staring eyes. Maybe smash his head on the back of the wall, strange mask be damned.

He had no such luck. Bane hefted him over his shoulder, using the force of his momentum to send him flipping, flying bodily and hitting the floor to skid into the wall.

Blake gasped with no air, curling into himself fully winded. Bane rolled his shoulders with a grunt.

"Close."

Shuffling feet approached the door. It took him another few moments before he realized how much the place echoed.

"As is your wont, never close enough."

" _Fuck._ " He hissed, rising to his feet, staggering as the full force of his bruises shot red hot through the rest of his arm. The damn thing was _just_ starting to fully recover, too. A grizzled face peered in through the grate on the door; from the sudden smell of tobacco that wafted through the room it was the guy that had been bringing his food lately. Bane waved a dismissive hand and they vanished like they were never there. His stomach dropped a little -- another routine he had gotten used to.

"Rest now. I will be back." Bane said, tone final, walking over and picking up a small log to toss into the fire.

"Give me a damn break. We've been at this for hours." Blake panted, suddenly and horribly feeling like throwing up. He swallowed bile as the man moved through the growing light to his coat by the door.

"A break..." Bane mused. Aside from the mechanical _thrum_ of his mask, he sounded like he hadn't even started breaking a sweat. "When did the citizens of Gotham ever get a break...?"

Adrenaline had fizzled out. Everything was truly starting to hurt now, bruises throbbing like a heartbeat, though they competed impressively with the burning in his legs and arms.

"You asked me what I did." Bane continued. "Let me answer with another question..."

The door opens. Blake shivers at the sudden cold.

"What did _you_ do?"

His brain was scrambled with pain and information overload, trying to figure out the man's puzzling tone, _why_ he had faltered during their brawl, if this was an interrogation session or a cruel joke...then he sees it. The scar on his back, a mess of knots and bumps traveling the length of his neck and spine. A knife couldn't have done it. It holds his gaze in some horrible mix of fascination and pity. Whoever had made that hadn't wanted him dead -- they had wanted him to _suffer_.

A flash of brown and it vanishes. With a creak of the door and without another word, so does Bane.


	9. Pick Your Poison

The sewer carried with it a chill that made Gotham's nine-to-five weather hazards feel almost welcoming. It was always wet, the air uncomfortably close and making him feel like he could never take in a deep enough breath. All Blake longed for was a cigarette. Even though he smoked rarely, the comfort of a faint buzz would do wonders for his aching body and sore pride. He crossed his arms and leaned as far away from the group of mercenaries as possible, watching them work and hyperfocusing on the feeling of a joint between his fingertips.

He couldn't think about Gordon's status. The department. The orphanage. Even a fleeting thought in their direction and the panic that had always flickered in the back of his mind would take over, clouding his vision and making his chest burn as if it were on fire. Focusing on the present was the one thing that stood in-between him and dissolving into a nervous wreck. He kept the television in his cell off the majority of the time. Filled up the empty spaces with mock-sparring, letting the short-term fantasy of shattering Bane's mask motivate him.

Dying wasn't something he was afraid of. Dying for _nothing_ was something else entirely. Knowledge of the outside world wouldn't do him any favors. It may as well not exist at all until he was out there again. _God_ , he needed a cigarette.

A scatter of stones shook him out of his reverie. The mercenaries moved in an orderly fashion, checking one another's weapons and gear when they weren't analyzing what seemed to be a detailed directory pinned next to a lantern's light. From the looks of it they were commands on guard routes and traffic patterns, though he couldn't make out the hasty scrawl. He would _almost_ be impressed with the precision in which they functioned if he didn't want to shoot them all in the back of the head. The way they talked about trashing the city, _his city_ , was enough to make him sick. He may have kept the television off, but he hadn't forgotten what he saw. It was only going to get worse.

Radio static flitted intermittently throughout the tunnels, though its details were also just out of his reach. He chewed on his lip fervently, trying not to listen regardless, hardly noticing when he was ushered toward the middle of the hall where the others were starting to gather. A hand pushed his lower back. He slapped it away.

The hired guns showed him only the barest minimum of respect, their muttered Arabic and Kazakh arrogant to his ears. One, strangely, had repeatedly given him the time of day, a curly-haired man often waving at him from where he always seemed stuck polishing or loading weapons of various shapes and sizes. Blake had looked for signs of other prisoners earlier and found little besides discarded clothes and the occasional spurt of betraying English. He heard Batman's name once. His gut roiled at their tone.

He stood amidst the mercenaries on what seemed to be a gathering area, the sudden company and contact jarring after his constant isolation. Bane had brought him in as little more than an audience member, no doubt, some further attempt at psychological pummeling. Watch the proceedings at work and become properly demoralized. It was an offering, admittedly, Blake _chose_ out of a near manic desire to get out of his cramped cell. "Get some fresh air." Bane had said, jovially. "Or wither away in your cage."

The air seemed to grow thicker when the masked man stepped out of the shadows. Everyone dissolved into outright silence, nodding or gesturing or simply standing at attention. Even with his physique blurred behind a black leather jacket and combat fatigues, the casual arrogance in which he moved would make it clear to any casual observer who was in charge.

"Good of you to join us." He said, lavish tone doing little to disguise his dark humor.

"You going to blow up more sewers?" Blake replied as he moved through them toward the directory. "Your _justice?_ "

Bane's eyes glinted over the heads of the mercenaries. He almost looked tickled. His men glanced at each other, brows furrowed in expressions that could only be read as, _"Who is this little shit and how's he talking back to our boss?"_

"It wouldn't do for your patience to run low." Bane's voice was quiet as he read the paper, little more than a rumble. A pale man lingered closely by his side, likely a second-in-command. "You've worked _so_ hard." The younger man's lip curled, but he held his tongue. He didn't want to keep pushing his luck. Bane turned as he was handed another sheet by one of his men, which he only seemed to glance at before handing it back.

A mercenary cut into the silence, accent almost as thick as the smoke on his breath. Food Guy. "You talk justice, but you can't even swim." Blake ground his teeth together to keep from quipping back -- they _really_ thought that was funny. Another man made gargling noises, flailing in pretend water much to the barely constrained snickers of his peers.

They sank into silence again at a glance from Bane -- the only sound that could be heard was the faint _drip drip_ of condensation. Blake had to admit, he wished he had the same ability to command respect with a single look. He held back a shiver when Bane's hand rested on his shoulder, the same one he had pulled from its socket days ago. Brief as a thought.

"Come."

Multiple vans waited in the shadowed alleys outside the sewers, just wide enough to house them. Blake had to fight the instinct to run and hope the darkness would buy him enough time before they figured out where to aim -- he was shoved unceremoniously into one of the vehicles, sandwiched between two men whose expressions made it clear they were tolerating him out of command. The dim lighting made it hard to tell who was who. That is, until one spoke.

"You are morally bankrupt, but you can fire a gun, yeah?"

"Shh, Salim."

 _'Great. I'm next to the chatterbox.'_ Blake thought sourly. His mood lightened when he realized the guy might just be talkative enough to slip up and tell him something. Maybe it'd pay to be a little friendly for once. It was damn hard not to think of the kids. How they'd feel seeing him like this.

_'Tell me the elephant joke again. You're really funny.' The kitchen smelled powerfully of garlic and pepper. They were cheap but tasty, enough zest to let these kids fantasize about a meal that was little more than dollar store basics. Joel tried to help, though he often became distracted and would run out of the room at random. The third time he had taken the sauce with him, leading Amir and Finn on a merry chase throughout the building._

_'Come on.' He laughed, tossing a few more spices into the pot. 'I just talk too much. So, an elephant walks into a bank and ask for twenty bucks...'_

_'...Blake?'_

_'Yeah?'_

_'Why don't you visit more often?'_

"Yeah, I can. So where are we going where that'll matter?" He answered, rubbing his hands together and trying to ignore the sour looks aimed his way. The man looked somehow youthful and old all at once, his shock of curly black hair falling over large eyes and bushy brows.

"Visit a, uh." He snapped his fingers as he attempted to figure out a thought, eventually nudging the man next to him. A quick exchange in Kazakh and he turned back to Blake with a grin. "A 'businessman'."

"Let me guess. You're the funny one." Blake responded with a sigh.

The guy chuckled. "Not many think so. But you go and name the others." Blake took the bait, looking throughout the interior and trying not to look anyone in the eyes too long lest they think he's being onery. "Well...that one's Grumpy." He said with a nod of his head; the guy in question had more scars than regular skin, it seemed. "That one's Sleepy. That one's Dopey." He coughed as the man blew a big puff of smoke into his face in response. Clearly he spoke English, too.

Salim sucked sharply between his teeth. "Ooh, that last one is..."

Blake snorted and made a smoking gesture with his fingers. "I meant drugs, not stupidity. Don't know him well enough for that. Or you, for that matter."

"True. All I know is you trade your soul for a badge." He responded.

"...No. I have standards."

"Oh?" He laughed. "Do your friends?"

"Sometimes." It wasn't a question he could answer easily, despite asking himself the same thing in his almost year of being in the force. The doubt must've shown on his face, as Salim leaned back with a satisfied grin.

"You got family?" Blake asked after the silence.

"All dead."

His chest sank. "...I'm sorry." Salim shrugged, folding his arms behind his head.

"Everyone here is my family now."

"Even Bane?" He asked before he thought to stop himself.

"Especially Bane." Salim responded, without the irony or blandness Blake would expect from hired muscle.

The ride continued in silence. They pulled up behind a massive building, someplace ritzy and barely familiar. Only when they walked up the steps, past a pair of guards who didn't even look twice at them, and were greeted by a shimmering gold interior did it click.

Bane was working with _Daggett?_ The man had been hungering after Bruce Wayne's inheritance for _years_. Blake had found out the hard way when one of his orphanages started to struggle under recent financial strain, unable to buy so much as an extra pair of jackets thanks to a sudden drop in donations. Good samaritans with deep pockets who were beginning to have second thoughts about their reputation.

Blake looked between them, trying to put the pieces together. Gordon had told him about the guy, though it wasn't the first he'd heard of him. Indeed, he wasn't exactly subtle in how badly he wanted Wayne Enterprises. Everyone did. What set this man apart was his very real chance of actually following through with his promises (as well as his propensity for temper tantrums). He remembered how he had hassled Miranda Tate at the charity ball. The charity ball...

"Who the hell is this?" The man seethed, looking yet not looking at him. Figures -- he was still wearing his old jacket and jeans, stained though they were from repeated misuse. "Didn't know you made a habit of keeping _that_ sort of company around."

Blake cringed and glanced sideways at Bane -- even he knew better than to take that sort of tone with the man. It was just like a suit, treating anyone and everyone as either an obstacle or potential extortion scheme. If not an ant to be crushed outright.

"No one you need to worry about." Bane said. He hardly seemed to notice the man's sneer. That or he didn't care. It was unsettling how easily he slipped into one of composure when he could turn savage at the drop of a hat. He wondered if Daggett had any clue.

"Then let's cut to the chase." Daggett brushed past them and pointed to a massive screen. Multiple news channels were playing in tandem. One reviewing the rising and falling of stocks. Another a constant survey of one of the downtown squares. "Bruce Wayne's out of the picture but I'm not receiving the benefits. That's a _problem_ , Bane."

Blake's blood ran cold. Out of the picture? What did he mean by that? He had spoken with Bruce Wayne not even a week ago. Two weeks, maybe. Just how much time had passed since he was captured? The room swam uncertainly. The mercenaries didn't even bat an eye. Salim even looked bored. They knew something he didn't.

"In due time." Bane replied, smoothly, hands folded in front of him. Blake looked at him, trying to keep his face from betraying his horror. Did he...?

"If you can't even follow up properly, the least you can do is get rid of the competition. I mean, _work_ with me here." The man spoke to Bane like he was a janitor, agitated at some overlooked spill. "Rile up the stock exchange, destroy their assets, waste their _time_. Anything to get them out of the way so I can get to the forefront before the holiday season rolls around."

"How's that going to help?"

All eyes turned on him. Bane's expression was neutral, hands still folded.

"You realize how many people depend on Wayne Enterprises?" He said, voice quavering in his anger. Finn, Joel, Tiya, Jay, Amir. Their faces expanded in full force in his mind, no longer held back by caution. All he could think about was where they'd end up if the man before him got anywhere _near_ Wayne Enterprises, one of the few entities that seemed to give a shit about the homeless and at-risk populations of Gotham. "Did you even consider how many you'd be displacing by screwing over his assets or does empathy not match your three-piece suit?"

"Can it, officer. You're barking out of turn." He sneered. "What are you, Bane's pet?"

Blake stiffened as Bane put a hand on the back of his neck.

"Gotham will bend the knee."

He pushed him down. Blake stumbled onto the ground, wincing as his knee hit the glittering stone floor. Muttered laughter filled the room, though he could hardly hear for the burning in his ears. His instinct was to twist out of that deadly grasp, pull the knife he keeps in his boot out and slice the man's arm open. He knew better. He knelt.

"Wayne Enterprises is a monumental influence spanning the length of Gotham. A mere setback will not see an intergenerational corporation unraveled. Words are better heeded when the listeners have no choice but to pay attention." He paused to take a long breath, that faint mechanical _thrum_ that had started to creep into Blake's more troubled dreams. "Our plan will proceed unimpeded."

Blake gasped as he wrapped his massive hand around his neck, curving fingers into his throat and almost cutting off his air supply. Just barely.

"Well, if that isn't a perfect goddamn metaphor. I love this guy." Daggett laughed with a nod to his subordinate, a greasy looking man that had seemingly materialized out of nowhere. "I didn't hire him for his showmanship alone, you know." He waved a hand. "Then get to it, Bane. I want to hear those filthy sons of bitches howling on my answering machines within the week."

Bane dragged him back to his feet. Shoved him to the door. He coughed and stumbled, lagging behind a few steps as he tried to regain his bearings. The guards eyed Bane carefully as he passed by.

"The hell happened to Bruce Wayne?" He wheezed in the open cold. Bane ignored him, gesturing idly to each mercenary as they filled the vans again. Two discarded their outfits, changing briefly before heading in a different car Blake hadn't seen pull up.

"You kill him?" He asked again, starting to shake as Bane continued to gesture and murmur to his men. One of the vans pulled out of the alley, blending into the traffic a few feet beyond and vanishing. He as well have been invisible. The horror of all that had come to pass right under his nose was starting to drive him crazy.

"A friend, huh?" He hissed. "You _fucking_ Miranda Tate to get onto the Wayne board? Get some juicy details when your goons don't work out? Thought someone like you would-"

_Crack._

He hit the ground so hard he saw stars. Blood spurted from his nose, melting the thin snow on the ground. The man stood over him, the faint _hiss_ of his breath clouding the air in a puff of white.

"You talk too much."

It was a long ride back. His nose didn't seem to stop bleeding, puddling into his lap despite his best efforts to stop it. The mercenaries didn't talk this time around, even Salim, content to look out the window or close their eyes for a moment's peace.

The familiarity of the sewer's sunk in his chest like a brick. His new home away from home. He gazed morosely at the dark walls, the glimpses of light beyond the upper walkways and rails. Shadows that seemed to move in the water. A fish, maybe, or a hunk of trash. Shadows that followed his limping steps as he made his way back to his cell, his fireplace and his cot.

Shadows that swallowed him whole when he slept.


	10. Ambiguity

_Dark eyes. Honest eyes. Too honest for a passionate mouth, even as its bitter curve intrigues him more than he would care to admit._

_Sparring sessions had proven a small spark in the physically and intellectually draining weeks. A knife to sharpen his mind when the humdrum of crunching numbers and cracking heads threatened to dull it. His men were too deferential for a challenging round, unfortunately, just a touch affectionate in their respect for his stature. An appreciative trait for any leader, but woefully lacking for training. They would spar just enough, fear and respect culling the fire that had first caught his eye during recruitment many months ago._

_John Blake, on the other hand, was a pleasant diversion that continued to draw his attention. Each session was intended to be a lesson in humility, a subtle tampering with a rigid worldview and, subsequently, soft body and moral outlook. Dangle the elusive nature of hope in front of his nose, the merest idea that he might be smart enough or sympathetic enough to deserve escape from an unexpected prison. It had been a fair fit for Batman, blatantly more accomplished in frivolous escapades and short-term solutions than his little officer._

_Unsurprisingly, an equally fair fit for an agent of the state. An attack hound (terrier, perhaps) for the supreme moral failings of a precious few -- the pressure of a life built around mindless obedience had begun to crack him delicately, then intensely, showing in the lines building around his eyes and the scathing tone of his voice whenever he addressed him. No, he wasn't too shaken by this spectre of a man. But he liked his ferocity. The self-sacrifical nature. Appreciated his honesty, however foolish. A bundle of contradictions he returned to every other night, then every night._

_Bane was curious and, for once, he didn't have an easy answer._

_"So you asked what justice meant to me." Blake had said, moving lightly on his feet. His brash nature had hardly budged an inch -- he was ever eager to vent his spleen -- but the man matched Bane's movements more closely. Beginning to anticipate where he might go. Early he had even managed to dodge a swift right hook, meant a sequel to the black eye he sported for the better part of the week, and struck him back beneath the chin where his masks' straps held firm._

_"What does it mean to you?" He had asked when Blake propped himself up from the floor for the third time, leaning on his elbow and rubbing his chin._

_"Protecting what's important." The officer responded with a roll of his jaw._

_"And that is?"_

_"I got twenty-seven kids."_

_Bane hadn't seen the man smile before. Indeed, he had very little to smile about as of late. It made him look gentler, the helpless wrath that always seemed to be boiling beneath the surface momentarily corralled._

_"Would you die for them, John Blake?"_

_"Absolutely."_

A _crack_. A _thud_. Bane turned away from his thoughts and glanced down at the proceedings below. His men continued to spar amongst themselves, their petty rivalries proving a decent enough battleground for rare free time. Rojo had struck the ground for what seemed like the last time in the evening, licking his wounds with a few curses as he slinked away from the training pad. With a flick of his hand Bane chose the next combatants, making sure to pair weaknesses with strengths to reduce any potential for future failings. The next round he pitted Salim against Blake.

The man had sat as far away as possible, though he watched with rapt attention. When they called him up he looked hesitant, glancing at Salim with a less than enthused gaze that was returned. It seemed he was closest the officer had to an acquaintance amid the poor and abused who held little love for in their hearts for law enforcement. He didn't miss the glare in his direction, nor his steady transition into a fighting stance.

_The fire had to be carefully minded. Blake was still unused to the sewer chills. Bane saw it in how he always trembled, the sallow hue that sank into his skin. It was his turn to clear the coals and re-fill the wood -- he completed the task a touch slowly, his movements stilted. Bane stretched his stiff back as he waited and reflected he may have hit him one times too many._

_A halting lapse in noise. He looks over his shoulder. Blake's gaze was on him, lowered a touch, throat working uncomfortably. It was another moment before he met his eyes, brows knitting into a frown as he turned back to the now roaring fire._

_"Didn't realize someone could actually land a hit on you."_

_"Flattering."_

_"Shame they didn't finish the job." Even his harsh tone couldn't hide a tinge of admiration. The man would sometimes stare when he thought Bane wasn't paying attention. Sizing him up. Studying._

_"Are you impressed?"_

_A scoff. "What gave you that idea?"_

_"I wasn't lying when I said you weren't a good liar." Bane pulled the poker from its stand, startling the man into backing away a few feet. "Your gaze lingers guiltily."_

_He stares him down, stiffly, and doesn't say more._

Brown eyes that glared at him through the paper, leered through the meetings. An illusory palinopsia that flickered invitingly every time he closed his eyes. It wasn't often Bane was too distracted to work. Talia had questioned his focus again during her brief visit earlier in the day, not even attempting to hide her concern to this uncommon behavior. Even Barsad seemed less inclined to sink into obedient silence and idly wondered out loud as to the status of John Blake's health.

_"You're surrounded by weapons. Why do you shy away from them?" Bane asks. The fire is warming the room now, embuing them both with a natural energy._

_Blake glances at the poker. The cot. Looks back to him. Irritated and tired._

_"Because it won't work."_

_"Why?"_

_A huff. "Too easy. You know better. Because you wouldn't just give me the means to kill you. The hell is this, homework?"_

Quieter than before. Salim and Blake feint and swing, uninterested in causing damage, landing barely blows. A remark from one echoes uncertainly along the vast walls, but the humorous tone is unmistakeable. Barsad barks a command. They go quiet, reluctantly, and continue to fight. Once Salim pushes Blake closer to the water's edge. He curses and makes a rude gesture, but he's grinning.

_"You hate injustice yet eat from corrupt hands." Bane says as he holds out the poker. It smokes lightly from the fire. Blake's eyes are drawn to it, cautiously, as the point is held level with his face._

_"I thought I could change things." He answered, slowly. Held his hands up as Bane advanced._

_"I may want to kill you with this poker. What will you do about it?"_

_He stabs through air. Blake rolls and grabs the last log of wood beside the fireplace. Holds it in front of him like a shield, gasps as the poker pierces through and stops just an inch from his chest. Flings both log and stuck poker away from him to clatter onto the floor, holding his hands up in preparation for retaliation. Lowers them when nothing comes._

_"It seems we're back where we started."_

A scream tore through the sewers, ricocheting off the walls like a bullet.

Bane stood swiftly, peering over the edge where the mercenaries were backing away from the water, aiming their guns and shouting at Blake and Salim to move. A dark shape thrashed in the water. A tail whipped through the froth, slamming into one who tried to grab it and sending him screaming into the darkness.

"What is that...?" He hears Barsad whisper beside him, peering through his scope at the chaos below. He cocks the rifle, only pausing when Bane holds up a hand. The man who had fallen crawled out onto the other side, calling out to his peers.

Salim's leg was submerged, one hand on the stone and the other gripping Blake's. "The hell are you doing?!" The man screamed up at the mercenaries, slipping on the uneven ground and almost falling in his attempt to keep Salim in his grasp. "Shoot it!"

Their hesitance was understandable -- the water was too murky and frantic. A stray bullet could have the opposite effect. A dark hand reached out of the water and clamped onto Salim's back, yanking him back.

The force dragged both men down. Blake grabbed a stray chunk of rubble as he slipped halfway into the water. Salim's head went under, coming up again a moment later with a hoarse gasp. A dark head, round and glittering in the poor light, loomed over his shoulder. Then another howl pierced the room, distinctly strange. A spurt of blood darkens the ground. Blake raises the stone in his hand and strikes again and again and again.

Another scream. A few more splashes. Then silence.

The man heaved himself over the edge to lay on the stone, coughing and sputtering as blood seeped through his shirt to mingle with the cold water pooling around him. Another moment and Salim crawled out to collapse next to him, clothes shredded and sticking wetly to his skin. Bane nodded to Barsad. With a rush of activity he descended the stairs surrounding the enclosure, rushing to the water's edge followed closely by his peers.

"They were right. Heh..." Blake wheezes, starting to laugh, still coughing up water. He lifts his torn arm, flexes his fingers weakly. A wink of white responds. The skin was flayed as if from an animal's bite.

His men shuffled from foot to foot, murmuring softly and turning on their flashlights to peer into the water. Salim was only mildly injured, pushing sopping hair from his eyes and attempting to help Blake to his feet. The sewer was silent. Wherever the creature had vanished to, it was deep and far away.

"You win this round, Gordon..."

His men turned from the water momentarily to stare at Blake, now howling, staggering as if drunk as he was lead down the steps and toward the hall.

"Should we search for it...?" Barsad asked as he returned from where he had been searching. "I only caught a glimpse. It was...no animal I had ever seen before." The gunman was not easily shaken. He kept turning back to the water that now ran smoothly, as if expecting whatever had attacked Salim and Blake to make a return trip.

Bane made his way down the hall to the med room.

" _Giant alligators, ha ha!"_


	11. An Unexpected Guest

_Bane is in his dreams._

_He's always in his dreams._

_Sometimes stalking him through the shadows when he tries to escape the sewers, appearing when Blake least expects it and making him scream with no sound. Other times they're fighting, slowly, every tell coming a mile away and still sending him spinning to the floor. This time the masked man is sitting by the fire, drinking tea from a little porcelain cup. How it goes past his mask is anyone's guess, but Blake is the silly one for not joining in._

_"I thought you were going to beat me up today. Maybe even finish me off." Blake murmurs from his cot. Is it a lucid dream? It's hard to tell, but his body feels like lead. He just wants to rest._

_"Presumptuous, John Blake."_

_"How?"_

_"You died a long time ago."_

_He starts to pull the mask from his face._

"Get up."

Something pokes his back. It feels like the butt of a rifle. Blake groans and covers his head. He's prodded again, harder this time. The heady scent of tobacco and rainwater fills the room, mingling with a few muttered words he can't grasp. His exhausted brain somehow manages to stitch sensory input together before he's opened his eyes. He's needed for something. It's important, but not urgent.

"Just...give me a second." He mutters, sitting up as smoothly as he can, even as his aching muscles make him catch unconvincingly. Bane's right-hand man (Barsad, he recalls) and a man he doesn't recognize stand at the bedside. They're bundled up and heavily armed. It's quiet outside the open door. The pain in his arm has all but dwindled down to a faint ache, but he tries not to push his luck.

"Get dressed." Barsad's soft drawl cuts through his stupor. He complies as quickly as he can, though he's sluggish -- he had been either sleeping too deeply or waking up every other hour.

"Don't know why Bane spends so much time on this lazy trash." He hears the other man huff under his breath as he pulls on his jacket, quite noticeably in English. One eye is marred by a deep gash, rendering the pupil a milky white.

"Neither do I, buddy." Blake mutters as he leans down to tie on his shoes. Granted, he _did_ have his suspicions -- it was all but impossible not to when he had one-on-one time with the guy on a near daily basis. The bandage on his arm just about confirmed them. It was another moment before he realized he'd indirectly agreed to being lazy. A glance at Barsad's smirking face revealed it hadn't escaped his notice either.

After crushing out the leftover coals in the fireplace ("Sorry, hothead.") Blake follows them out of the room, cringing at the wash of cold air. They're greeted by one other man, also armed to the teeth and sporting a thick scarf. His stomach begins to sink when he doesn't recognize him, either -- the aftertaste of sleep had completely vanished, replaced with a growing sense of dread. Were they going to haul him out of the sewers somewhere dark and empty and finally shoot him in the head? He tries to hide his relief when Barsad instead hands him a small two-way.

"Bane is still occupied. He has tasked us to look in the sewers below for evidence of the creature that attacked you and Salim." Barsad says, immediately turning and walking a brisk pace down the steps, past the hole-in-the-wall rooms and the training pad. The sting of a new environment prickles the back of his neck. He hadn't been this deep in the sewers before. It was unsettlingly quiet, none of the banter and barked orders filling his periphery. Aside from the flicker of a few cigarettes above, most of the mercenaries were also out.

"The sewer line travels another twenty feet below." Barsad continues mechanically. "The upper levels are manned, so wherever it disappeared to it will likely be somewhere within these depths." He's quiet for a moment, then continues. "...You apparently have detective training, so you were deemed a suitable addition to the search." Blake raises his eyebrows, even though he knows he can't see. If he didn't know better he'd say the guy sounded bitter.

A flashlight is shoved in his hands. Before he can turn it on he's pushed toward the darkness that's started to flank them in their descent -- a yawning hole stretches out before him, pitch black as anything he's ever seen, and a faint rush of water echoes throughout the space. Condensation occasionally drips from above to soak into his hair.

"Start looking." Barsad says as he brushes past.

"Do I get a weapon?" Blake asks, staring into the depths and trying not to shiver.

"Of course not."

"So if we get jumped I'll have to fend for myself."

The scarred man nudges him to start moving. "Bane doesn't want you dead yet." He says with one last puff of smoke. "We'll protect you."

Turning the light on to its lowest setting he begins to creep through the tunnel, mindful of the rushing water just inches to his left. His nose is freezing, too cold to smell anything, and his arm starts to throb from the exertion. There had been no infection, thankfully -- their doctors were well-trained -- but the stitches were already starting to itch horribly. It took all his concentration to focus on the single foot of visible space in front of him and not shove his hand up his sleeve to scratch like an addict.

"It might not act like the average animal. I didn't get a good look, but it was...weird. Wasn't any bigger than a large man." He began, even as his subconscious railed at him the sheer strangeness of what he was saying. "Even...shaped like a man." The scarred man snorts and glances at Barsad, still stone-faced in the poor light. Blake grits his teeth together. "I _know_ what I saw. I'm the one that got bit, remember?" He holds out his bandaged arm for emphasis. This didn't seem to sway them, the one with the scarf even quipping.

"I know Gotham has _Batman_..." He says the name like a curse. "...but Lizard Man would seem a bit much."

"Am I going to need a witness?" Blake responds dryly. The water starts to get a little louder and he inches away. "Salim, maybe?"

"I doubt he would vouch for you." Barsad says as he crosses a small bridge over the water. The man with a scarf follows him, the other remaining nearby and inspecting the walls. Blake continues to analyze the cold cement for clues, though his thoughts are dragged unwillingly to the talkative mercenary. Salim had gotten off pretty lightly, all things considered, but he had seemed a little shaken by the whole ordeal. Hadn't spoken to him since it happened. He tried not to read too much into it, even as he felt an inappropriate pang of guilt. Maybe he had inadvertantly made the guy look bad in front of his peers. Embarrassed some survivalist's code of honor. It was either that or get eaten, though.

"...Why _did_ you save him?"

Barsad's voice barely carries over the rush of water. Blake can hardly make out the gray edge of his body against the black. He tries to keep his voice low, though he's not sure if the man can hear. "I try not to let people die if I can help it."

The man seems to pause. A few hoarse chuckles down the tunnel. Another utterance of Batman's name. He ignores the angry heat in his chest and continues to search. At the very least detective work was a perfect way of keeping his attention. It had always acted as a sort of salve for a frantic and angry kid-then-adult, something that could efficiently narrow down his energy and make him feel worthwhile. He first learned this almost otherworldly obsession through old mystery films in the orphanage. Even with the sound turned off as not to wake up the other boys he'd pick apart every last detail, silently congratulating himself whenever he would guess the twist before it happened.

He cautiously rounds a corner. Double-checks to make sure the mercenaries are still in sight. There was little to reveal but more smooth, damp cement. Aside from the occasional rat dropping and weak mold growth there was no sign of life any bigger than the palm of his hand. Then he sees something black and glittering.

He picks it up. It's smooth and hard, just a little pliant.

"What is it?" Barsad is close to the water's edge, flashlight lowered as not to ruin Blake's vision. He holds it out where he can see.

"A chunk of plastic, maybe. Not sure." He says, wincing as the water's cold spray flecks against his arm. "Keep an eye out for more."

The scarred man goes back down the tunnel to double-check. Blake continues forward, Barsad following along the other side.

"Didn't seem like it cared how many were watching. Tried to sneak in when we were distracted." He mutters, more to himself than anything. Even with the new stimuli his mind feels like an underwhelmed machine, starting to creak from disuse. The feel of teeth in his arm, the pitch of Salim's scream, the inky blood. Details are brought to the surface and then discarded.

He finds another a few feet away. Then another. The third has an odd texture around the edges, rough and crusted. He's reminded of lizard scales. He's beginning to pick at it when he hears a low bark of Arabic far behind him.

"Omar says he found one. Small like yours." Barsad says, moving ahead and vanishing. Blake tries to keep up while inspecting every inch. With a start he hears the man's low drawl around the corner. A glow too bright to be from his flashlight illuminates the water. They must be near a ceiling grate. "Here is another."

Blake's memory of the incident was erratic and blurred by panic. Nonetheless he tried to sift through the mess of imagery and find some sort of clue as to what they were dealing with, _anything_ that could satisfy both these men and his own curiosity. The encounter had sat obsessively on the backburner of his mind ever since he was hauled into the medical room and drugged into a stupor for the impromptu surgery. What they were faced with wasn't natural, his gut knew. His logical brain disagreed. It was a bad day when those two came into conflict.

He stays just outside the circle of light, wincing even at the weak trickle that filters in many feet above. His stomach continues to gnaw at him as he observes his find in the better view. They look like scales. _Feel_ like them. It wasn't an alligator, not with that weird shape, but it was reptilian. Somehow. Reptiles didn't usually lose individual scales, not unless they were hurt or sick. There had been no blood surrounding his find, as best he could see, so the former was already unlikely.

Barsad turns around for a moment, holding up his hand. Something glints between his fingers. Blake narrows his eyes, a pattern starting to form in his mind. Where would it be going down these tunnels? Why so many scales on hard ground? Even at their most exhausted water reptiles stayed in the water whenever they could help it. The creature certainly had when he slammed a rock into its eye. The only way they'd be finding bits and pieces scattered at random like this is if they were being led into...

"...a trap."

Barsad doesn't hear him, nor the shape that was descending from the ceiling like an oily shadow.

" _Look out!_ "

The mercenary looks up just in time. He ducks as a massive clawed hand swipes down at his head. A bullet goes off, ricocheting and whizzing past Blake's ear. He drops to the ground instinctively, almost falling into the rushing water in the process. A thud. Something incredibly heavy had hit the ground. The detective looks up to see Barsad flung into the rushing water like a ragdoll.

Blake cries out as he vanishes into the spray. The man with a scarf doesn't fare much better, struck across the face and hitting the far wall with a sickening crack.

It's shaped like a man. The glittering, textured skin is anything but. Its hunched posture shadows its face, but the claws curving from its hands and tail sweeping behind its legs are enough to make Blake's spine quail.

A rush of footsteps. "Get _down_." The scarred man hisses, suddenly standing over him and aiming his rifle. Blake covers his ears right as he fires two shots. Then the man says the worst four words he could hope to hear.

" _Where did it go?_ "

Blake finally gets to his feet, stumbling backwards, grappling at the wall to steady himself. He's surrounded by darkness again. He feels his pockets, only just realizing his flashlight had fallen from his hands in his shock.

"We have to flank it. We outnumber it." He says, breathless. "We can-"

"Where is Barsad?" Omar interrupts. The low growl is coarse with terror now.

"It got him." He says, looking at the empty space where he used to be. "Threw him into the water. I don't know if..."

"Where is Sadiq?!"

The man with the scarf. Blake looks wordlessly at his limp body halfway in the light and halfway in shadow, propped against the wall with his neck at a strange angle.

A patter of feet. Blake turns just in time to see the man running back down the tunnel.

"Where are you going?!" He yells at the man's vanishing back. "We can't split u-" A flash of gunfire. A following scream that confirms his worst fears. He manages to move his trembling legs across the gap, back toward the light. His hands twitch fitfully as his mind tries to wrangle with slipping time and come up with a plan. Bane's soft drone filters through his mind like a spectre.

_'You're surrounded by weapons. Why do you shy away from them?'_

A few beats of silence. Then a flicker in the dark. A low scraping.

_'You wouldn't just give me the means to kill you.'_

He tears off his jacket as the creature lunges out of the black, seizing it around the clawed hand that reaches for his throat. Its strength far exceeds his own and it's all he can do to grind his heels into the slippery tiles, heaving to the side to yank it off balance. A scrabbling of claws and it slips, striking the ground in a tangle of limbs and dragging Blake down with it.

He cries out as he hits his arm, the stitches splitting from the abuse. A frustrated hiss responds, followed by something slapping the ground. Blake lets go of the coat and rolls away, away from the rushing water, scrambling onto his feet to reach into his boot. The knife is small, only a few inches long, but he feels a rush of adrenaline when his fingers curl around the hilt.

A shredding sound. The jacket is flung into the water to be swept away in the spray. One round, green eye stares at him.

Then he hears a _laugh_.

Blake stares in horror at the rows of glittering teeth that come into view. "That's all you got?" A husky voice says. A slow blink, now in the safety of shadow. "A nail file?"

It doesn't click. Blake holds his knife out, moving his feet in a fighting stance and watching that pale eye drift back and forth. Pacing.

"The rock was better."

He finally finds his voice.

"You...speak?"

A guttural snarl. The wrong thing to say.

"Of course I _speak._ "

It lunges forward, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him close. Instinctively he slams the knife into the hand, earning a shriek and a swipe to the face. He feels his ear slice open, splattering hot blood down his neck. He yanks the knife out, swiping at the face wildly. He's flung away, hitting the ground and almost rolling into the water again. It's one frantic moment he thinks of jumping in. Then...

"There you are."

The creature whips around at the smooth voice. The spikes on its back undulate fitfully as Bane steps into the light. His hands rest on his vest's collar, mask glinting like fangs.

"Come now. Surely you can hold your own against someone your own size."

Blake hardly has time to react. Swift as a shadow he's in front of him, grappling the creature and shoving it away. He leans up on his elbows, watching the two silhouettes thrashing in his haze, the pale light only occasionally bouncing off the creature in a glitter. It bites the man, sinking teeth into his shoulder -- Bane doesn't even flinch, whirling around to slam its head against the concrete wall repeatedly.

Blake feels his stomach clutch as the creature's claws scrabble against the mask, aiming for Bane's eyes. He wants to help, but his instincts tell him to stay on the ground.

The creature's grasp is split apart by a swift counter, Bane's elbow flashing through the gap to strike it right in the mouth. He strikes again and again, each _crack_ and _crunch_ reverberating in the closed space and echoing down the tunnels. The creature realizes it's out of its element, its one good eye round with horror. It turns tail and attempts to dive into the water. Bane lunges down, grabbing it by the back of the neck and wrenching it back onto land.

He pins it down through force of weight. Raises his fist. Another _crack_. The alligator man lays in a tangled heap on the floor.

"...Fuck." Is all he can say. Breathless, the knife clattering onto the ground from his shaking hands. Bane looks at him for one long moment, then to Sadiq. Kneels and checks his pulse. A few halting footsteps down the end of the tunnel and Barsad slinks into view. He's sopping wet, a nasty gash across his cheek and jaw.

"Where is Omar?" Bane asks, hardly glancing at the man.

"He ran." Blake responds before Barsad can speak. "Guy was armed to the teeth and he _ran_." Now that the adrenaline had worn off he's realizing how angry he is. The man's scarred face fades into view as if summoned. He pointedly avoids his gaze, standing to attention as the masked man rises to his feet and approaches him.

Bane's voice is low. "Did you find me to secure back-up or did you flee out of fear?"

Omar swallows visibly. Keeps his eyes lowered. Murmurs something in Arabic.

Like a snake Bane's hand whips out, grabbing the man by the throat. Omar gags and chokes for a few horrible seconds, then goes limp as a fish. He drops to the floor, Bane flicking the man's froth from his hand and walking over to where Barsad is standing to attention.

For one terrible moment he's afraid he'll kill him, too. A few muttered words. A quick response. Then he waves a dismissive hand and the mercenary goes over to where the creature still lies unconscious. Blake didn't even notice the other men standing in the dark nearby, now joining Barsad in tying down its wrists and ankles.

He stares as it's lifted and hauled into the darkness. Reaches over and pinches his arm a few times. Weird, horrible reality.

He doesn't notice Bane standing just an inch away, peering down at him, until he speaks. "What are you doing?"

Blake blinks. Looks at him, then his hand. "Oh. Making sure this isn't some fucked-up dream brought on by anaesthesia." He looks at the bite mark on Bane's shoulder. "Looks like you could use some."

He ignores this. "You are already hurt. What would pinching do?"

"I don't think I know anything anymore."

Bane reaches over and inspects his bloodied clothes and cut ear with a casual hand. It's bizarre how gently he glides his fingers across the torn skin, then his ruined arm. The sensation doesn't gel well with the very recent memory of the alligator man's thrashing. Omar's execution. His brain and gut start to argue again when he takes his wrist, turning it this way and that in the light to observe the stitches. A few silver scratches glint across the black of his mask, otherwise looking no worse for the wear.

"Come."

It's a different medical room this time. Smaller and more cramped. He blinks a few times in the much brighter light, feels his spirit lifting just a little at the familiar scent of oil and cigarette smoke. It may not be a medical room, he realizes, more of a bunk that's been refurbished to handle different needs. It has a bed, a small dresser, radio equipment.

"What are you going to do with it?" Blake asks as he peels back his ruined sleeve.

Bane pulls out a chair and sits down in front of him, beckons him to hold out his arm. Blake sits by the small table on a spare stool and complies, watching with muted fascination as the man starts to work.

"Have it share your cell."

Blake's jaw drops. Then he snaps it shut when Bane lets out a short wheeze that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. He's messing with him.

"It will remain in captivity for now." He continues, wiping the wound clean with solution and pulling out a needle and thread. Whatever he uses to numb the pain works incredibly fast. The desire to tell him it spoke to him (taunted him, no less) floats to the bottom of his exhausted mind where the rest of the day lay in a messy pile. He lets his eyes observe Bane's thick fingers working at the wound, the needle weaving in and out of his skin with deceptive ease.

The numbness relaxes him. He finds his attention wandering in the close heat of the room, the monotonous tugging of his skin being gradually pulled closed. His voice sounds far away, like a stranger speaking.

"Where did you learn to fight like that?"

A soft _hum._

"A long answer."

"I've got time." He stares at the wall, trying not to close his eyes. "I barely survived an encounter with... _whatever_ that was. Twice. You knocked it out in ten seconds. Thought I had learned a few things getting the shit kicked out of me by you, but..."

"You survived an encounter out of your element." Blake turns back to him. He's pulling out another thread. "Took someone with you, much to everyone's surprise."

"I couldn't let him go like that." He says, suddenly weary and feeling his shoulders sag in spite of the compliment. "You all think I'm a lot more heartless than I am. Like I'd just let people die for the hell of it."

"Respect is earned. Your occupation has done little to inspire confidence in the minds of others. You expect this to vanish in the wind with temporary camaraderie?"

"No." He sighs, trying to keep his skin from twitching as Bane mops off excess solution. "Benefit of the doubt would be nice at this point, though."

"...Perhaps."

A note of concession. It's a strange feeling, reaching an impasse with someone he fears, loathes and respects all at once. The masked man seems to feel it, too, if his brief pause is anything to go by.

"I expected you to turn tail. Engage in sabotage despite Barsad's attempts to involve you in the job. Instead Omar revealed himself a coward and you demonstrated further backbone. Either I have witnessed true potential or you are more stubborn than I realized." This actually makes Blake chuckle. Bane's eyes flick to him momentarily before returning to his arm.

"So I _am_ your little case study." Bane tugs the stitches closed and reaches for a pair of scissors. "Glad to know I'm keeping you on your toes."

"You're a clever one." He says, snipping off excess string. It's a clean job, considering the hectic nature of the wound, though he knows it's going to hurt double come morning.

"You've hardly asked me for any information. You haven't killed me yet. You keep coming into my cell to, uh, spar with me..." Both hands do the finger-quotes, though he has the wisdom to keep his injured arm at steady. Bane shoots him a look regardless. "The only other reason I can think of is you think I'm cute."

Silence. One last snip. The man pushes his arm off the table and starts to peel off the gloves. A thin, breathable bandage wraps around the stitches, barely visible in the gauze. Exhausted as Blake is he can't shake the feeling he's got the potential for something better in his grasp.

"All right." He says, leaning forward. "Let me do you."

Bane stares at him.

"Your _shoulder._ " Blake grumbles, pointing for good measure. "It's a mess. Let me close it before it gets an infection."

For a moment the masked man almost looks suspicious. Then he tosses the gloves into a small bin by the door and shifts slightly to the side. Leans his elbows on his knees. Pulling his chair forward Blake reaches over and digs around for where the man had pulled out a pair of gloves. There's a lot of equipment, enough to make a nurse aid jealous.

He occasionally glances at Bane's face as he makes sense of the shredded flesh, the flaps of skin curling and sticking to drying blood. No sign of pain or discomfort. He's starting to think the man isn't human. Aside from the faintest twitch of his bicep when he applies solution (massive and littered with faint, silvery scars now that he was so close), he hardly seems to care. So Blake keeps his gaze on his work, even with the temptation of getting a better look at his scar nipping at the back of his mind.

Slowly but surely the wound starts to close, though his handiwork wasn't nearly as elegant. It had been a while. He's so focused on wiping away excess blood he doesn't hear him.

"...for now."

"Sorry, what?"

Bane looks over his shoulder.

"You will rest for now."

It's a gesture of some sort. His brain tells him to silently accept this, wrap up the wound and march right back into his cell like a good captive. Make up for the past few nights of troubled sleep and mull over his next escape plan. His gut suggests something else.

"...Got any of that tea left?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much on my plate at the end of the year. Wish I had five more pairs of hands to dedicate to fanfiction!


	12. Where Despair Goes, We Go

She's worn down when she visits again. He can see it in her eyes. There's no attempt to cultivate an elegant air around their hired guns -- Talia tells both Barsad and Salim to leave her alone with him with the barest hint of decorum, running an agitated hand through her hair when the latter nearly drops his bundle trying to flee out the door.

Bane sets down his thread, giving her his full attention as she begins to pace.

"He still struggles to adapt the reactor, even with the generous time limit we have set for him. I have reminded him exactly what will happen to his children, but still he hits roadblock after roadblock. I begin to wonder if he is stalling for time, attempting to wait out some ludicrous rescue fantasy." She looks at him. "Torture may slow him down, but..."

Bane nods to show he's listening, mulling over the positives and negatives of tasering or strapping wires under the captured scientist's nails. Injuring his hands would be detrimental, affecting his ability to type or take notes. Psychological torture may harm his productivity, as well, reducing him to a catatonic state when they need him at his mentally fittest. He would have to attempt a mixture of physical and emotional pain, enough to stretch him to the breaking point and bring closer to his reality the threat of death.

An unfortunate and necessary evil. They didn't have time to spare. The people needed their weapon before outside forces made up their minds and decide to intervene. All their hard work could end up with disastrous consequences -- torture was but a small blip compared to what would happen to an entire city if they failed. One that has held strong for this long.

Bane reaches past his chair into the little box by the mattress, pulling out the brandy he occasionally dips into when he has a spare moment. He beckons her to sit down. She complies, tugging off her heels and tossing them to the side.

"I can hardly stand another minute with the board. I would almost seek out Bruce Wayne's company again, if only for the fact his jokes have better punchlines." She opens her mouth to continue, then shakes her head with a humorless chuckle. "I'm complaining again..."

She gratefully accepts the half-full bottle. Waves away the offered cup and drinks from it straight. It's another few minutes before she calms entirely, nestling in the crook of his arm.

"Sometimes...I just want to see it all go up in smoke." She murmurs. "Watch the fire rise in one last blaze of glory."

Bane keeps his expression neutral. It's not the first time she's expressed such a sentiment. He recalls the light that flickered in her eyes when she first encountered the nuclear reactor, how she found it to be the one thing separating Gotham from redemption. _'I jest.'_ She had said. _'Nothing can redeem Gotham, but we're going to try'_.

Despair. Their personal hellhounds, birthed alongside them in the pit and trailing after their steps year after year with a tireless pace. Maintaining an ideal hadn't been easy. If anything it was the opposite of a good habit, becoming more wearisome and prone to cracking with every new challenge presented down their long, tumultuous road. Even when she escaped the pit she had to contend with a father who was rarely happy with her. Never happy with him. A world that she dreamt about endlessly, only to have it resent her at every point and turn.

Showing weakness around the League Of Shadows had never been an option. Wavering resolve would divide their militia. So she only let herself rub her eyes and grimace in his presence. He reaches out and strokes her hair. Talia reaches up and holds his hand to the side of her head, closing her eyes.

She's allowed moments of weakness. After all she'd been through.

"It will, in a metaphorical way." He starts as she leans against him, leg brushing against his. He ignores this. She has become more physical as of late. It's troubling, but he doesn't push her away.

"Gotham's...law and order..." Bane says, appreciating the disgusted click of her tongue. "...is bending at the seams. Your work in the Wayne Board continues to be an impressive wedge in an otherwise flawless machine. However long it will remain standing during this barrage." He tells her about the last two raids he conducted as the mysterious hired mercenary, one at a long-standing real estate firm on the south end of the city and the other at a stock market. How Daggett had later frothed and floundered on the ground after an embarrassing display of arrogance. She appreciated this detail, though it did little to further her mood.

"Ra's would have admired your patience." He murmurs.

The name rarely crosses his lips. She looks up at him with a hard gaze. "He didn't appreciate yours."

Her anger on his behalf had always been touching, if unnecessary. With Batman rotting away in the pit he was finding the rage a little easier to let go. A spectre of what it used to be. Stalking the edge of his consciousness whenever he came across the man's handiwork, still stark in Gotham's daily culture, but nothing he couldn't keep at bay.

"May I see?"

She gestures to his half-finished pattern on the table. He leans back, allowing her to reach over and pick it up. Settling beside him she picks up where he left off, fingers as delicate as any needle.

"When the city has been returned to the people...I want you to find something that makes you happy." He says, watching her work. "Not satisfied. Happy."

The look in her eyes haunts him the rest of the day.

\--

The officer had been given free reign to go to and from his cell as he pleases, required to stay only in the dead of night when sleep was a must. John Blake didn't appreciate his newfound freedom like a conventional prisoner, however -- he was anxious, sniffing around for clues, eyes darting back and forth even as he blended in with his surrounding company and attempted to adopt their mannerisms. Sometimes he would be challenged to a fight by the other mercenaries, too brutal to be training -- he performed impressively, putting on a good enough show to earn him the nickname 'Crocodile Hunter'. They found this amusing. He did not.

Barsad tells him this as they inspect the armory outside of Gotham, a new location just far enough out of the way to make casual detection difficult. The open air is a welcome reprieve from the stifling confines of the city, one Bane allows himself to enjoy even as he crunches numbers amidst their decaying stock.

"He sometimes joins the men over cards." The man continues, occasionally leaning down to pick up a weapon and ensure its authenticity. "I found him trying to look at the creature earlier. When I asked him what he was doing he said he 'lost his way to the bathroom.'"

Bane kept his chuckle to himself. Blake had a sense of humor he was starting to appreciate, even if it only put a sour tint to Barsad's tone.

"...It is rare to keep a prisoner so long and hardly give him anything to do." He eventually says, setting the rifle down with a nod and walking down the narrow hall.

"He does plenty."

" _Productive_ things to do. His help tracking the creature was a good start." Barsad stops himself, as if he's gone too far. Bane offers him an opening.

"You want him to do more?"

A haughty _sniff_. All but a confirmation from the prickly mercenary.

"Speak your mind."

"I may have died had he not warned me." He almost sounds apologetic. "Unlike Sadiq all I had to deal with was a soaked jacket and wounded pride."

"Ah. So that is what happened." Bane had only shown up when Blake was wrestling with the alligator man, low on options with but a small knife to protect himself. He had been careful with too much praise, not wanting to indirectly soften his spirit, but he appreciated he wasn't the only one noticing sparks of potential. Barsad was a reasonable man -- his thoughts would always be considered.

How John Blake would fare in the League Of Shadows, well. It was a shell of its former self, still alive in secret through him and Talia and their ideology. Should he survive the upheaval of Gotham he intended to breathe new life into it, to mete out justice the world over and inspire later generations to carve out their own future.

The man could no longer be an attack dog, that much was for sure, but their conversations had long since revealed his doubt over his profession. Being kidnapped and fed terror almost daily had hardly broken his spirit (even as he temporarily snapped after he and Salim were nearly dragged underwater to their deaths). He mulled over this while tallying each weapon and marking where supplements needed to be made.

John Blake could be remarkably hardy. A fervor that carried over to compassion. Honesty. He was a survivor with an ideal, however flawed and warped from an ugly city -- the kind of person the League Of Shadows had always sought out. Perhaps it was more than an absence of spite that was influencing his and Barsad's opinion of the man.

Fondness was a sentiment Bane rarely felt, so he hardly recognized it for what it was as he moved through his cold little pocket of the world and worked tirelessly to both hurt and protect Gotham.

\--

John Blake kept the television off. He can tell by its uncharacteristic sputter when he checks the weather during a reprieve from sparring. It was a wise tactic to stave off the slow crawl of existentialism -- Bane wondered, idly, if Batman was practicing the same wisdom in the pit. Knowing his arrogance, it was unlikely.

Their conversations balanced on a thread. Like changing tides the man would show sides both calm and fettered. He could be amicable, almost warm, when touching on topics of family, only for his words to become barbed concerning philosophy. This bundle of contradiction whose company was becoming more and more a tempestuous element for the warlord -- even as he was physically limited to the storm drain, their temporary home, Bane's true control over the man was fickle at best.

He liked it.

They had conversed about krav maga earlier. The man had a surface knowledge of the art, garnered through on-and-off sessions with a mentor at one of the orphanages he grew up in. It was a detail Bane grew curious about -- he himself had grown up around individuals without parents, families or even a bare minimum knowledge of community dynamics. In self-preening civilized societies a lack of family was a mark against character, a designated flaw that would fester like mold upon a person. An existing family that didn't fit archaic standards potentially more so. Even if a child managed to reach adulthood the sickness would remain dormant, eager to rear its head within the next relationship they formed.

Blake agreed with this assessment when he shared it, mouth twitching in a show of vulnerability.

"I would watch videos and copy what I saw when Phil got married and moved out of the city. Was hard when nobody wanted to scrap with me. Sometimes I'd fight the other boys for the hell of it. Needed someone to blame, I guess. I got kicked out two months later after a particularly bad fight." He had sat down, reaching his hands out to the fire to warm them. "Guess they got tired of the angry little Jewish kid tarnishing their pretty Christian image."

He's sipping tea by the fire now, idly rubbing a bruise on his forearm from their match -- he's learned rather fast the less flesh used to block, the less broken blood vessles contended with later. He reaches for the kettle. Bane holds it out for him. He doesn't shy away this time, instead meeting his gaze as he steeps his cup.

"Why do you wear that?" He asks, staring over the rim.

"I was wondering when you would ask." Bane grunts as he sits down across from him.

"Sure. Just doesn't seem like the best topic to break the ice with."

"Tell me why you wear yours and I'll tell you."

It's an impressive reaction. Those curved brown eyes widen as if struck. Then they narrow as he lowers the cup to speak. Shuts his mouth when nothing comes out and searches his face as if for jest.

"You may not be able to lie to me..." Bane leans down and pulls out the small box of tea leaves. It's running low from their repeat meetings. "...but I know a farce when I see one."

Blake sounds stung. "I think your punches have hurt less."

Bane waves an impatient hand. "A mask is survival. Do you disdain yours?"

A troubled look overcomes the man. "I wish I didn't have to."

"Then take it off. What else do you have to lose?"

He's quiet for a few moments. Deliberating. "...Share my true feelings?"

Bane shrugs. Pulls out his handiwork and continues where Talia left off. Even in her absence going over the steps she made was a calming reassurance. Blake stares at his hands, a little unbalanced, then lifts the cup to his lips again.

"I'll escape." He says, slowly. "I'll kick your ass. I'll find out what the hell you did to Batman then stick you in a cell 'til your mask peels off from the fucking rot."

Bane smiles as he takes another sip of his tea, then leans forward and watches him work.

"Though I suppose you could teach me how to do a cross-cable, first." A wry smile in return. "I'm a little low on therapy these days."

\--

He pulls a muscle the next time they spar, hard enough to make his eyes water and his stance falter. The man puts on a decent show ("It's nothing. I've had a Charlie horse before."), but Bane bades him sit. Blake pushes damp hair out of his eyes and slumps on the side of the cot with a grimace -- it's grown noticeably longer and the length seems to irritate him. Bane stands beside him, pressing fingers into his back to find the offending muscle.

He can feel it almost instantly -- the stress has knotted a muscle between his neck and his shoulder blade. A small part of him is frustrated. The man should know better than to forgoe stretching.

"I can undo this."

"Great." He replies, looking over his shoulder. "Do I _want_ you to is a good question."

"It is up to you."

He tries to move his neck, then winces.

"...Sure."

Bane sits behind him, pushing a thumb into the spot. Blake gasps and jerks back.

" _Ow_. Shit, you trying to make it worse?"

"...You are bony."

"I'm not a hulking tower of muscle like you, you mean."

"Turn around."

He huffs and complies, though he rolls his shoulder for emphasis. "Just...try not to break my back in the process."

Bane tempers his grip to what he sees as near comical levels of gentleness. It seems, however, to work. Blake begins to relax as he kneads at the tension, rewarding him with easy, halting breaths. His skin is still slick with sweat, making it easier to roll his thumbs over each bump and dip. He feels the man shiver when he brushes a hand along the back of his neck -- a sensitive spot.

He's careful to alternate all over, letting the neighboring muscles create a domino effect to impact as much of his body as possible. Physical therapy is a familiar subject for Bane, though one he was approaching less and less these past hectic months. Perhaps he should take his own advice.

He soon finds himself less interested in technical details and more so in the faint moans that are starting to pepper the man's breath. The texture of goosebumps beneath his fingertips when he moves his hands to a favorable spot.

"Damn, Bane." It's the first he's heard his name without an acidic tone. "Ever think of hanging up the terrorist mantle and becoming a masseuse?" His voice is hoarse, head lolling forward on his chest. Bane slides a hand along the back of his neck again, letting his fingers curl to address the tendons by his throat. The muscles have relaxed somewhat, but are still filled with troublesome crooks.

"Were I to..." He murmurs as he rolls his fingers rhythmically. "...you would be an interesting repeat customer."

Blake leans back, just an inch.

" _Shit_." He sighs. "That's nice."

Bane tries to ignore the quickening of his blood. The man is quiet for a few minutes.

"It was an honest question, by the way." He says. He doesn't pull away from his touch, even though his back has now since loosened up. Bane slides his hand down his spine, down to where the muscles grow thicker. "...You're going to get pretty fucked up when you're caught. Why spend all this effort on something that just makes people hate you?"

"What have you learned, detective?"

"Do you _ever_ answer a question straight-up?"

"No one grows without a struggle." He rotates his thumb against another knot, prompting a hard shiver. "Certainly not you."

"Now _that_ sounds like a self-fulfilling prophecy."

Bane considers the implication of sharing personal information with the man, as well as the way Blake lays back once he's done and makes himself comfortable on the small cot. His breaking point had been a goal from day one, a sequel to Batman's psychological thrashing, but he was becoming less and less sure. The man showed promise. More than some of his actual recruits. Maybe it was that which made Bane take vital time away from his work to see him.

The way he looked up at him through his shadow, low-lidded eyes relaxed and critical all at once...maybe it was more.

It's unfamiliar territory. He can feel himself becoming frustrated again, something that burns slowly deep inside him. Blake's next words pull him back into the moment.

"Everyone here is loyal to you. I can tell they're not working for a paycheck. You've worked pretty hard to get Gotham shaking in its boots. People here fear you and also love you." He stifles a yawn, slides a hand down his face. His hair glints in the firelight, orange on black. "Not entirely unfounded, I guess." A chuckle. "Closest you're getting to a compliment from me."

Bane gazes down at him. "You are intrigued by my reputation." He moves his hand back to the man's neck, the crook between neck and shoulder. The muscle is tender, pulse jumping beneath his fingers. Blake's throat bobs as he starts to rub again, in slow circles, circulating the blood beneath the skin with a swaying motion. Soon his pulse slows and his breath steadies.

"I have been bred in the art of war for years. An ancient practice found me worthy of molding in their image, carving my body into a living weapon like an artist would stone." Bane says. "What you see in me is the effort of a collective that see the same dream through different eyes. A dream of justice, slumbering to the hymns of hungry mouths and sore souls. To credit me is to credit thousands who existed before and thousands who seek existence now."

His eyes are nearly closed now, though the conviction in his voice is untouched. "I've thought about this more than you know."

"Good." Bane murmurs. "I would be disappointed if you didn't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of build-up for the next few chapters where it'll get a bit plot heavy. Thanks so much for the kind comments -- I'm reminding myself not to overthink this too much ( _just one more edit_ ) and to simply let loose!


	13. A Good Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for suicide mention.

It was a good day.

Sure, his dreams were starting to seriously trouble him as of late. Sometimes he would be drowning, swirling down some dark abyss miles beneath Gotham with no land in sight. Other times he was back at the orphanage, but no matter how many doors he opened and times he called Reilly and the kids they never showed. The latter had terrified him into waking, coated in sweat, his reality in confinement infinitely better than seeing that cold, empty St. Swithin's. Then, like usual, Bane would show up.

Except they weren't like usual. His subconscious was starting to trade echoes of their past sparring matches with echoes of other details. Warm, rough hands sliding along his back, his stomach, a fire flickering somewhere in the distance, nowhere near as warm as the man's chest. He would touch him back or press into him, even, encouraged by Bane's murmured words, though meaning was difficult in a dream. Sometimes the man's hands would slide lower, never low enough, leaving him hard and frustrated when he woke up again.

While his body was starting to toughen up from the exercise (he'd sometimes jog around the hallways to get his blood pumping), his hair was starting to fall out from the stress. Food Guy had even caught him tossing small handfuls into the fire when he visited with more than just a reminder for breakfast -- he asked if he wanted to spar with the others, small smile just a little awkward. It was a bright spot in his wet little Hell and Blake accepted gratefully.

Mock-fighting with the occasional round of checkers in-between had proven surprisingly invigorating. With the masked man temporarily out and the mercenaries left to their own devices, it was a chance to remember what it felt like to live beyond adrenaline and isolation. Whether they were celebrating the results of a mission or simply enjoyed having some time off once their boss wasn't breathing down their neck, it was clear some things never changed, questionable occupation be damned.

His mostly-healed arm and Bane's brutal lessons had made anything less feel like a walk through the park. Something almost hearkening to respect had glinted in some of the men's eyes when he fought a man named Rubio, then another named Ali, sending them both to the floor with a swiftness he didn't remember having. It was clear they had all mentored under the same regimen, favoring practicality over flourish much like Bane did, but they were nowhere near as vicious. It wasn't until he went toe-to-toe with Barsad did he get humbled again -- he could barely land a blow on the guy and ended up on the ground himself after a chokehold he couldn't twist out of.

Rubbing his throat and trying to catch his breath, he ended up humbled again when the man reached a hand down to help him back to his feet. 

Food Guy had given him a cigar after he slumped down beside him to take a break -- it tasted like heaven on his tongue and hell on his chest. The quiet man snorted as he struggled to take in a deep enough drag, hacking and coughing into his hand, though kindly kept further commentary to himself. It reminded him of his training days in the academy, waking up at the crack of dawn to drill, shoot the shit over a smoke, then drill again. Not a bad day, all things considered.

As Gordon would say, "This is Gotham. Could be a hell of a lot worse."

Starting to relax from the mixture of endorphins and tobacco, his gaze is dragged unwillingly to the video playing on the man's tablet. A glimpse of the outside world. He doesn't want to look. He kept the television off _precisely_ to numb the bite of his situation, fool the majority of his brain into thinking he was on some elaborate vacation. For the most part it had worked -- those psychology 101 classes he took a few years back were proving far more useful than he'd ever imagined. Nonetheless he glances over and over, eventually surrendering to his curiosity when he hears a familiar voice.

A clip of Amanda Waller speaking with a reporter about recent events. He had met her only twice, briefly, but they were enough to cement in him a deep respect. She was a powerful presence, legendary for her harsh tongue and ability to silence a room with a mere look. Called 'The Wall' because nothing got past her, be it corporate bullshit or criminal activity. He puffs on his cigar and continues to watch. More protests. These are clearer, suggesting a professional broadcast rather than the video clips hastily strung together last time. The headlines discuss a local psychiatric ward recently havings its doors and windows blown apart, with speculations attempting to link to the 'mysterious masked terrorist'. His eyes flick quickly across the text. No notable injuries, multiple patients escaped.

He recalls an old memory of one of the older St. Swithin's boys. How he had aged out a while ago but never quite adapted to the everyday world, having long since been pushed to the brink by depression and part-time jobs that never paid enough. Blake was twelve or thirteen when he started swinging by the orphanage for a place to sleep or a bite to eat, visits rising in direct correlation to his dipping health. He was later committed to the very same ward, coming out worse than before and ending up fired by his superiors. It had been a Sunday morning in April when he found out the man had 'slipped' off a bridge to his death. Blake hated the place ever since, determined not to let any of his kids sink so low as to have no other options. Seeing it filled with holes was both jarring and satisfying, something he stared at until the screen suddenly darkened and the man stuffed the tablet back into his pocket.

His heart lifts uncertainly when Salim waves him over. It's the first he's interacted with him since their dip in the sewers. He sits next to him and hands him his cigar, trying to push what he's seen to the back of his mind.

"How's your back doing?" He asks lightly, not wanting to come on too strong. The man is drinking something hot in a tin mug.

Salim gives him a noncommittal shrug. "Better. Your arm?"

"Healed up for the most part. Bane had to put it back together again after we ran into it...again." He chooses his next words carefully. "Glad it won't be a problem anymore."

"Yes, it is in chains. You see it, Crocodile Hunter?" The man asks. It startles him how easily he broaches the subject. Maybe he had misinterpreted his sudden distance.

"One, don't call me that. Two, I've tried. Every time I go over there Barsad snaps at me like I'm a kid with a hand in the cookie jar." He has to explain this saying, which makes Salim's eyes widen in delight. Clearly he had been that kid in the past. "Have you?"

"I give food so he does not starve. He want you dead, I think." He says, apologetically, as if he holds any of the blame. "I say your name and he make this face..." Salim bares his teeth. "Like to bite you again."

' _So he hasn't heard it talk yet_.' Blake thinks, nervously. ' _Starting to wonder if I was imagining it_.' "Where do you think it came from?"

"Gotham is strange." He takes one last swig of his drink, then a deep puff of the cigar. "Your city make many awful things. Many things that want to kill you."

"Well, you're not wrong." He knows he's generalizing, but it's hard not to feel a little put upon. "I think the only guys who don't want me dead here are you and Bane." Blake sighs. "...Somehow."

"I am jealous." He admits as he passes him the cigar back. "He talk to you a lot."

Blake coughs out a cloud of smoke. Food Guy chuckles again down the hall. "I don't want that! He's..." He struggles to find the words, patting his chest a few times. "...he's..." Salim raises his eyebrows and observes his reaction curiously.

He's terrifying and incredible. Somehow. Blake's feelings on the warlord are a tangled mess, with every attempt to unravel only rewarding him with more frustration. What does he say? 'It's just Stockholm's Syndrome. Give me another week and we'll practically be married.' He _definitely_ wasn't about to tell him he was starting to have sexual fantasies of the man. Knowing his admiration of everything Bane did and stood for he was probably in a similar boat. The question already puts a damper on his mood. It's time to change the subject.

"Seriously, how'd a guy like you end up with a crowd like this?" He says instead once his coughing fit subsides. "Sometimes you seem too normal to be here."

"I tell you, you tell me." He says with a chuckle.

Blake huffs. Bane really did rub off on everybody here.

"Well, I got kidnapped for starters..."

He snorts when Salim wrinkles his nose. "No, no, I know what you mean. I applied only a year ago, actually."

He offers him the last chunk of the cigar as he speaks. The man accepts it gratefully.

"I originally went to college for computer science. Dropped out when it got too expensive. Thought I could make a difference catching hackers or creating better technology, whichever came first." He continues, far more casual than he feels. "I've been on the wrong side of justice before. Arrested a few times growing up. Seen it happen to my friends. Some didn't...make it, though. When college didn't pan out I thought I could be the one that changes that. Even if it's just looking the other way. Giving people a second chance."

"Did it work?" 

"...Sometimes." He admits with a drop of his shoulders. "Other half of the time I got reprimanded for not finding an unpaid fine worth sending someone to jail over."

"Small dream." Salim says, matter-of-factly. "Small results."

Blake snorts. "The dream was plenty big. So were the obstacles. I saw what Batm-" He stops himself, remembering the vitriol in which the hired guns spoke his name. Nobody is listening except Salim, however, wrapped up in conversations or their media. He leans forward, conspiratorally, and whispers, "You like Batman?"

Blake rubs his hair. Now the conversation is _really_ killing his buzz. "It's not a matter of _liking_. He just got things done. He wasn't concerned with soothing ruffled feathers or following every last line of red tape to a dead end. He wanted to make sure _nobody_ got away with the shit they did, no matter how rich or protected they were. He made sure that whatever happened to the victims wouldn't happen again. It's...something I wish I had when I was a kid."

That knowing look in his eyes again. Sometimes he gets the feeling the man knows more than he's letting on. Salim leans down and starts to rummage in his bag, pushing his curly hair out of his face and not saying anything else. Blake tries to look him in the eye.

"What happened to him?"

He frowns a little, though still doesn't look at him. It's clear he can't say. Blake decides to ask a simpler question.

"Is he dead...?"

A twitch of his head. He pulls small strips of jerky out, smiling nonchalantly when one of the others looks over at them. "Eat." The moment they look away Salim catches Blake's gaze and twitches his head again -- a shake.

His shoulders slump in relief. He was _alive_. "Thanks." He whispers, taking the offered strip and chewing on it. Salim pulls a little toolbox out of his bag and begins to clean weapons again. He's incredibly efficient, hardly even looking at each part as he scrubs and tweaks a pistol's barrel into a better version of itself.

"My mother and sister die in the war. I work a, uh. Meat shop, after. With my dad. No leg and he can't fight." Salim begins, balancing the weapon on his crossed leg. "Little shop, next to train. I like to watch the people." He hands him a gun. Blake pulls a machine tool out of the bag and cleans it absent-mindedly, studying the man's expression. There's a vulnerability he hasn't seen before and he doesn't want to let him down, even if it's just giving him his undivided attention.

"I shoot birds for dad." He continues. "Bad birds. Keep the crops safe. Dogs, sometimes. For the shop. He always tell me I sleep too much. Tell me I don't pay attention. I try to help, but all I want was to get on the train and leave. I hate the shop. Hate the smell. Bad memories. Dad later is sick and the, uh, doctors say he has problem with his lungs."

Blake's chest twists. One after another. No wonder they were kindred spirits.

"I can't carry shop. I try. Not many people come. I shoot all the birds now. All the dogs I see. Sell them so I can eat. Sleep in the shop. I watch the train but where do I go? I leave and I have no money. I stay and I am stuck. ...Then Bane arrives." His expression grows fond, even with the old pain clear in his eyes. "'Good aim', everyone say. 'We need that'. They want a worker, someone to protect the vans when they travel. But Bane, he..." The man pauses in his work. "He ask why I am alone." 

"What did you say?"

"I tell him everything. I tell him I can't get out." Blake realizes, horribly, the man might be younger than he previously thought.

Salim goes quiet and sets the finished pistol down, reaching for another.

"...Bane promised you a future?" He says when he doesn't continue.

"No." He says. "He promise everyone."

Then Barsad walks over. Blake wipes the smile off his face as the lean mercenary glances about him with purpose. While he learned as much as he could with his newfound freedom, this man eluded him more often than not. He was practically Bane's shadow and, even worse, seemed to be constantly watching him.

"Nice work." The man's lazy drawl cuts into his thoughts. Even doing something as mundane as polishing weapons he feels like a student caught lagging on his assignment.

"Uh, thanks." He says. "I'm a little rusty."

"You will come with us."

"Sure." Blake sets his work down. "What are we doing?"

The man hands him a thicker coat and a scarf without another word. He puts it on dutifully -- he wanted to stay on someone's good side for once.

"Oh, I know." Salim says in a hushed tone, pulling on his own jacket. "We guard a meeting."

"Will Bane be there?" He asks, pushing his scarf into his coat to keep the cold from seeping in.

"Miss him already?" Barsad quips, almost making him jump. Blake grits his teeth and hopes it comes off as a smile. "Just need to know if I should be more afraid of stray bullets or stray punches, is all." The man turns and speaks in rapid-fire Kazakh to the mercenaries gathering around him. Blake looks to Salim for a translation, which he obliges.

"We cover Bane. They disrupt shipment. We keep safe. Stop, uh..." He snaps his fingers as he tries to find another word. Barsad casts him an annoyed glance. "Workers. Nearby workers. They can't interrupt."

"Uh, what if they _do_ interrupt?" Blake asks under his breath. Salim makes a gun gesture with one hand.

"Wait, we're not going to-!"

"Knock out dart."

Blake breathes a sigh of relief.

Like last time the trucks have tinted windows. The deeper details of the mission are left out of his reach, just that Bane needs nobody walking in on whatever he's doing. After a somewhat long and cold ride they arrive at what seems to be a shipping operation, pulling up on the upper levels where leftover crates and equipment are piled high enough to hide their activity. Despite the workers' apparent best attempts to clean snow layers stubbornly on every inch of machinery.

" _All right_." Barsad says over the speaker. " _Get to your positions_."

The driver and his partner head to their post without another word, leaving him and Salim alone. They have a decent view of the city, even though it's drenched in wet fog and he can't make out the furthermost buildings through the gray. Another minute and the following van pulls up below, two mercenaries wearing deceptively mundane clothing stepping out and checking their surroundings before opening the side door.

Bane cuts an eerie figure moving through the snow, rugged sheepskin coat billowing in the freezing wind. It's the kind of image folklores are made out of, he thinks, just a little surreal. Perhaps that's why he wears the mask -- psychological terrorism. A way of striking fear in people before he even speaks or lays a hand on them. The man glances around him for only a moment, breath puffing out of his mask, before walking up the steps into the building and vanishing.

" _Eyes open, Crocodile Hunter. We move now_."

Blake stifles a groan. Even Barsad.

Salim is perched between a forklift and a crate, hands steady on his rifle and scanning the environment. The cold doesn't seem to bother him at all, though he's vindicated somewhat by the man irritably flicking snow trying to settle in his hair. Blake makes sure his receiver is off before asking.

"Why here...?" He asks. "Why not somewhere less obvious?"

He shrugs. "Hide in plain sight."

A faint scuffle makes them turn. The mercenary motions for his silence. Blake looks to where he's pointing -- a worker had walked into view below, rubbing their hands together and inspecting one of the forklifts. 

Salim's gun is completely silent. The worker pats their neck curiously for only a moment, then slumps against the wall.

"Shit." Blake breathes. "They weren't kidding when they complimented your aim."

The man beams at the praise. "Hide him."

Blake makes his way down to the lower level, keeping his head low as he moves down stairways and in-between carts and lifts, in case the employee has any co-workers nearby. He finds them halfway propped against the wall where they had fallen to one side. The feathered dart sticks out of their neck, which he pulls out and slides carefully into his chest pocket. He's about to pick them up when they cough, suddenly, and twitch.

"Ungh..."

...Shit.

He doesn't have any time. They look about the same weight, despite being a little taller. He kneels and lifts them from their underarms, dragging them away from the forklift and looking for somewhere they're least likely to get run over.

"What...where..." They slur softly, head lolling on their chest.

It's a good while before he finds what he's looking for, an empty corner between a stack of boxes and an out-of-order lift. There's a long, winding groove in the snow where he had been dragging them around -- at least people will have no trouble finding them. They're still not fully knocked out, looking up from where they lay with glazed eyes. His stomach twists guiltily.

"Salim." He says into the receiver, panting from the exertion. "It's really cold. You sure it's okay to leave them here?"

" _They are fine. Drug is one hour."_

He frowns.

"They could freeze to death."

Whatever Salim says is cut out by the receiver beeping again. Barsad.

" _Update me_."

"Uh, just one person so far. Salim knocked them out and I'm putting them somewhere safe."

" _Good_." A click. He huffs and mutters under his breath, "You're welcome."

They've passed out now. The concrete overhang shelters them from the falling snow, but he doesn't like how hard they're shivering. He pulls off his jacket and lays it over them, careful to tuck their hands underneath.

"Hey! What are you doing?"

He stiffens. ' _Easy, Blake_.' He stands and turns as calmly as possible. Another worker stands just a few feet away, eyes narrowed in confusion. "You're not supposed to be down here."

She's not screaming or blanching, so it's clear she hasn't seen the unconscious worker right behind him. Blake tries to keep it that way by putting on the best imitation of innocence he has in his repertoire. "Oh, shit. Sorry about that." He says, a little apologetically. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"I'm not startled. I need to know what you're doing here." She says, crossing her arms. Not a security guard -- her blue jumper suggests she works in the same department -- but she may as well be just as suspicious.

It takes him another moment to realize Salim can't see them both behind the overhang. If he moves she'll see her co-worker and no doubt panic. Or slug him. Whichever comes first. He'd have to risk trying to snag her attention.

"I, uh, found someone lying here." He starts. "Just didn't know who to call..."

It has the intended effect. Her eyes widen. "What?"

He steps aside as she rushes over to look. His morning's pummeling at the hands of Barsad plays like an instructional video in his head. Hook an arm around the esophagus. Squeeze enough to make them dizzy, soft enough not to crush the delicate muscle around the throat. Hold a moment longer for them to pass out. The moment she slackens he lets go and lays her down, hurriedly checking her pulse and heaving a sigh of relief when he feels a faint flutter. Hopefully neither of these workers had heart or lung problems.

" _You still here, Blake?_ " Salim asks over the receiver.

He stares down at the two workers, shivering. "...Yeah."

"The fuck am I doing." He mutters to himself when he returns, sitting down beside the man and trying to forget about what transpired just a few minutes earlier. "The hell am I doing this for?"

"You do this for Gotham." Salim says, chin in his hand. "You will see."

"...I don't know that. I don't know that at all."

Salim breaks his gaze from the horizon to look at him, eyes a little wide at his tone. "All I do know is that everyone who needs me is out of my reach." He finishes, suddenly exhausted by it all.

They sit in silence for nearly an hour. Only one other worker shows, knocked out like the first and tucked with the others -- he figures the shared body heat is the closest they'll get to _not_ catching the flu once they're found. Salim doesn't look at him when he returns and slumps against the wall, rubbing his temples.

His receiver beeps again. Barsad's voice carries calmly in the quiet. " _We are almost finished. Stay sharp_."

Then...

"You save my life, back then." Salim shifts a little where he sits. "I forget to thank you."

Blake stares at the falling snow. "Don't mention it."

"...You know, you remind me of him."

Blake looks at him. "What?"

"You come out of nowhere and save me." He chuckles, softly. "You try to save everyone." Snow has peppered his hair with white now, but he doesn't notice it. "What is the saying? You learn something new each day?"

"All we have is each other, at the end of the day." Blake responds. Salim nods slowly, as if realizing something.

"Everyone's future."

It's not hard to follow his train of thought. "Yeah." He says, looking out into that impassable sheet of gray hanging over Gotham. "Everyone's."

"...Knock out."

"Huh?" He looks over the railing. "There's nobody there."

Salim makes a gun symbol with his hand again, against his neck. "Knock out." Looking at him now with a small smile. "So everyone think you escape."

He _couldn't_ be.

"What...?" Blake gasps, sitting up. "No. _No_ , I can't do that. What if everyone finds out? What's going to happen to you?"

"League kill cowards." He shrugs. "I am not a coward." Reaches over and gives him a friendly slap on the shoulder. "You know."

He does.

" _We move in one minute_." Barsad says over the receiver. He looks down at it, then to Salim.

"I won't forget this." He whispers.

He has Salim stomp around a bit to invoke the appearance of an organic struggle. Weeks with these men have made it clear anything less would screw both of them over. He's not confident with the rifle, the light weight odd in his hands, and almost panics when he hits the man in the neck with the dart. Salim waves him away as he staggers against the wall.

"Better go." He says, drowsily. Laughing a little. "Good luck, Crocodile Hunter."

Blake chuckles. "Right back at you."

Throwing down the rifle and turning off the receiver, he makes a run for it.

It takes all his willpower to slow himself down to a brisk pace. The last thing he wants to do is attract any suspicion, even though the only sound that greets his ears is the air winding its way through the concrete walls. They were higher up than he thought and he rounds level after level with no seeming end in-between parked trucks and supplies, most of the stairways locked.

His breath comes in short, tense pants. He has less than a minute left. He racks his brain for a lie should he run into another mercenary. Maybe say Salim had asked him to double-check for more workers because he ran out of ammunition. No, that was unlikely. Maybe he'd have to take his chances and fight them. Unarmed and so cold he was starting to lose feeling in his fingertips, he was up against some fair odds.

It feels like an eternity before he reaches ground level again. There it is -- an alleyway leading out of the factory. A shape moves at the corner of his vision. He whirls around, fists instinctively raised. A bird perches on wall lamp. A pale gray ball, the only thing distinguishing it from the snow the splash of orange on its collar.

"Hey." He pants. "Wanna get out of here, too?"

It twitters and takes off into the air. With one last look over his shoulder he follows it through the alley and into the outside world.


	14. Just A Little Hope

Gotham was freezing.

The wind strikes his face like a whip, cracking his lips and blistering the sweat on his brow. Every breath was as heady and involved as if he had just ran a marathon. Whoever invented the saying, 'When hell freezes over' must've been referencing the cursed city of ten million.

Blake had never loved the cold more.

The sun beats down on his bare face and he can hardly see for squinting. Snow crunches and water sloshes in off-beat rhythms. Cars screech and honk from all sides. The sensory input is almost overwhelming. It takes all his willpower not to turn and jog right back where he came from.

He needed to call Foley. Tell him he's the furthest thing possible from a corpse. Maybe he could call Jeff. The man was no doubt put on constant duty to pick up the slack in his absence. Or he could try and phone the orphanage. Finally check in on his kids. His heart lurches painfully in his chest. He could just go to the orphanage now. He was so close. A few blocks, a trip on the bus...no, he needed to eat first. Eat and get somewhere warmer.

Thoughts flitted random and uncertain as he made his way downtown. It was like walking through a funhouse, picking out what was normal and what wasn't. Bane's influence was clear -- smashed windows were more common than usual, the ground littered with trash too fresh to be typical city sludge. The most shocking element was not the charred truck he saw smoking in an alleyway nor the disturbing video feeds playing in the square. The air _felt_ different.

He walked past a bus filled with and surrounded by what seemed to be homeless individuals. A woman with curly pigtails danced and hollered on a tipped over car nearby. Everyone huddled together over fire bins, attempting to warm bare or barely gloved hands. With his stained button-up and messy hair he must've blended in quite nicely -- haggard, tired and probably needing a drink. The woman on the car even called out to him to join in on the fun.

"C'mon, darling!" She laughs, beckoning him. "More than enough fun t' go around!"

He gave her a weak smile and shook his head, suddenly aware of all the eyes on him.

He stops by a food truck before he realizes he has no money -- the vendor curses under his breath as he pats his pockets sheepishly. So he walks down furthermost Central Avenue. Past downtown. Crosses street after street, up to the Commissioner's apartment where he knocks on the door and tries not to lick his dry lips.

Gordon's slack jaw would have been funny if it weren't so painful. 

"Where the _hell_ have you been?" He gasps. Blake could only imagine what he must be seeing. He had hardly glanced at a reflective surface as he made his way through the city. Granted, the looks passerbys gave him told him plenty. Someone had even done a double-take. He thought they only did that in the movies. 

"Glad to see you're okay, Commissioner." He says, a little weakly, trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

"We searched _everywhere_ for you. Everyone was convinced you were dead and floating in the ocean somewhere. I called-" He stops abruptly as Blake pushes past him, walking inside and pressing his face against the man's leather couch. Something normal. Something right. Gordon gawks at him from the doorway, eventually shutting it and walking over to the kitchen. The scent of coffee soon fills the air. The man thinks he could weep -- he had no idea cheap Folger's could smell so damn _good_. 

His chest quails when he sits up again and catches his reflection in the mirror on the far-end wall. He looks terrible. Like a zombie he makes his way over, staring at a reflection that didn't seem to belong to him -- his skin was pallid from the cold, a nasty scar dented into his hairline and a new scar on his lip. Lighter patches clash with his dark hair where it had fallen out. With a weak sigh he reaches up and touched the spots, sliding his hand down to stroke the uneven stubble growing along his jawline. 

Would Bane track him down? Or Barsad? Surely he wasn't that important. Then again, it seemed like they were attempting to rub off on him. Get him to switch sides. Hell, it almost worked. Maybe they'd see right through his and Salim's little scheme. Trail him right over to Gordon's apartment and choke them both to death. A thread of panic winds through him, making it momentarily hard to breathe. 

A soft _clink_ snaps him back to reality. He turns to see two cups of coffee and toasted bagels set on the table, Gordon pulling out a pack of cigarettes and sitting down.

"A lot has happened since you were gone." He says, softly. "Eat."

Gordon tells him how the department has been scrambling to meet the demand of a city struggling under the weight of constant raids and counter-protests. Recites to him just a few of the events that have happened -- Blake already knows about the destruction of the psychiatric ward. He _didn't_ know Daggett was recently found with his neck broken in his own home. Bane and his mercenaries have stirred up enough trouble to catch the eye of Waller, but not enough to garner the support of neighboring districts.

"'Why don't you get Batman to help'." Gordon quotes with a snort. Puffs on his cigarette. "They're a little out of touch."

Huddling on the far end of the leather couch and staring at the television without watching he in turn tells the Commissioner everything he can recall to memory. His original attempt to find him, only to run into Bane's mercenaries and ending up captured. The beating he took trying to escape. His housing somewhere beneath Gotham in a storm drain, surrounded by mercenaries from all over the world. Bane visiting him in his cell. Fighting him. Talking to him. Sitting with him on the cot and looking at him in a way that was...

Well. Almost everything. 

"Miranda Tate..." Gordon whispers, twisting his dry hands together as he so often did when he was puzzling a situation. 

"He could be lying. Trying to get us fighting amongst each other." Blake offers around a mouthful of food. Gordon doesn't seem convinced.

"Do you think he'd lie about that, John?" It's odd to hear his first name as is. "Especially when he had you held hostage with no means of escape?"

The man had always trusted his intuition. It's why he so often asked him for assistance, just shy of being an _actual_ detective associate. The more Blake considered Bane could be telling the truth the more his gut twists, warning him of deeper details swimming beneath the surface. He downs the bitter coffee and reaches for the pot. 

With a start he realizes he hadn't brought up the alligator man. Maybe it was better if he kept that a secret for now. He didn't want Gordon thinking he was more fit for a mental institution than active duty. 

Doubt starts to worm its way through him. Maybe he _had_ planned on letting him go all along. Maybe he didn't. Every time he got an answer he got another question. Blake's mind was a mess, scrambling up and down like a cat on curtains. He needed to sleep. Caffeine and his jumped up nerves probably wouldn't let him. He takes another deep drink, then reaches again for the near-empty pot. 

"I don't know. He said something about exposing Harvey Dent, too." He says, rubbing his eyes. "Like he's got a finger in every pie. No clue if it's legit or not, but the man's done his homework, if nothing else. You'd think he'd read a compendium or something." Gordon goes quiet and flicks his cigarette against the ashtray. Doesn't speak for a few moments.

"We'll...have to be careful who we tell this to. Can't stir up a panic. Not with everything already hanging by a thread." He rubs his beard. "You're sure you didn't see evidence of Batman? Any sign that he was there."

"Just...that he's alive." He thinks back to the conviction in Salim's eyes. How he couldn't get any more detailed. His head is starting to hurt. "I'm pretty sure, anyway."

"I need _specifics_ , John." He presses, leaning forward. "Anything will help. Anything that can-" 

"Look, for fuck's sake...just give me a minute!" He snaps. "If I had all the answers I'd tell you, don't you think?"

Gordon pauses. Blake's hands are shaking. A few drops of coffee hit his knees.

"Shit. I'm...I'm sorry." He whispers. "I didn't mean to yell at you."

The old man shakes his head slowly. "No. You've...been through a lot. I shouldn't be pushing you right now." He stood up, gathering his silverware and heading to the kitchen. "You can stay here or I can give you a ride to your apartment. You should get those cuts looked at, though. Check up with the clinic to make sure you didn't get any diseases from that dip in the sewers." His voice lowers. "Or the beatings you've been taking."

He scratches his mustache, as if wanting to say more. Instead he turns away, voice muffling as he headed into the kitchen. "After I call the department and let them know you've returned I'll look into South Africa and Kazakhstan. See what they have on recent raids. I might get some information linking to the man's identity and any associates found finagling with him."

Blake didn't remember responding. The walk up the stairs, through the hall and into his superior's free room was simultaneously the longest and shortest handful of steps he'd ever done. He collapses on the bed, sighing into the sheets and feeling the world's concerns dropping like a brick in the water.


	15. Back To The Grind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for antisemitism.

"Amir, hey! How are you? Oh, I'm fine. Trust me, _more_ than fine. Better than I was. You draw anything new?"

It's one of the busiest afternoons the department has seen in months. The front receptionist has been doing an admirable job juggling calls and requests to transfer information, but a recent deficient in staff has her struggling to carry the extra weight. One caller is convinced they've seen the masked killer at the corner store, another is begging for more surveillance in their neighborhood after a raid -- it's all she can do to soothe their fears, much less her own. As if mocking her the day also sent her a man who decided to use the public phone for nearly an hour, frequently and suddenly yelling in bursts loud enough to distract her and everyone within hearing distance. Even sharp glances his way were met with little more than a small smile.

"He's not the only one who needs to use that." She mutters to her co-worker when he brings over coffee. "Out of all the days in this shitty week we get _this_ guy." He follows her gaze, nearly dropping the drinks in the process.

"That's _Blake_. John Blake. The guy that went missing a few weeks ago?"

She pauses and looks back to the man now laughing into the receiver.

Blake glances over his shoulder, then at his watch before turning back to his little corner. Both receptionists are staring at him now, which means he's starting to overstay his welcome. He didn't recognize them -- they were either new hires or transfers in an attempt to beef up the fluctuating staff.

With Gordon still talking with Foley he took the rare spot of free time to contact St. Swithin's. Reilly and the kids had all gathered to talk to him on the other end, voices tumbling over one another in the most beautiful clamor he's ever heard.

" _It's a miracle_." Reilly had said before handing the phone to the kids. " _It's a goddamn miracle_."

It took a few minutes for them all to calm down enough to take turns talking. Tiya had gone first for good behavior, asking about his safety before talking about a lizard he found beneath the floorboards the previous night. Amir was eager to share his new work, though he grew remorseful recalling how the rain had washed away most of his chalk drawings. Finn had finally managed to find an odd job shoveling snow, though he didn't seem too pleased about it. Blake gives him some encouraging words -- he's just glad he's trying.

The boy changes the subject with a joke he heard from a pun book, entirely corny and still making Blake laugh hard enough to double over in his chair. The receptionist looks at him again, mouth in a thin line. She really wasn't happy with him. He puts his hand over the receiver and opens his mouth to apologize when he hears another voice, tinny and excited, filtering through the hubbub.

" _Blake? Blake?_ "

"Joel? Joel?" He says, earning an excited laugh. "You sound good, huh?"

" _Blake, why did you go so long? I miss you. Reilly cried_."

He swallows thickly, smiling in spite of the heat rising in his chest. They probably hadn't told him the truth. "I'm sorry, Joel. I got caught up in some...things. I'll tell you about it when I visit. Might not want to, uh, tell everyone about Reilly crying, though."

" _Maria said it's okay to cry_."

He chuckles. "Yeah, true. Very true. I need to remember that." Being checked by a six year-old. He couldn't be prouder.

" _Maria gave me three stars 'cause I did all my papers and she give me this book and it's super good and I wanna read about the best breads_."

"Wow, that's amazing! You going to try out a new recipe?"

He sounds uncertain. " _No...I just wanna read it a little._ "

Blake's voice softens. "Hey, that's okay. I'm glad you got something you like. Show me when I come by, yeah?"

Joel sounds happier than he's heard him in a while. They all do, despite everything in the city going to hell in a handbasket. The Swithin's boys were a difficult bunch according to the average psychiatrist and landlord, but nobody could call them fragile. That they had managed to last through the past hectic weeks is almost too much for the man. It's a white-hot burn now, one that makes breathing a little difficult. He pulls the receiver away from his mouth, still listening as his throat threatens to give him away.

" _The pictures are good. This bread looks like a person, though. Why does Santa like cookies that look like people? Is that normal?_ "

Blake smiles at the precocious question. How he had missed hearing their voices.

" _Blake_?" Joel sounds worried. " _Where did you go?_ "

"Don't worry." He manages to say, rubbing his eyes. "I'm here."

" _When are you coming home?_ "

"As soon as I can. I promise."

Reilly returns, much to the disappointed moans of the boys in the background. " _Sorry, Blake. Gotta take Tiya and Joel to therapy. Wanna leave early 'cause of all the snow_." He's not a sentimental man, so Blake is touched when he mutters, " _Take care of yourself, all right. The city's a mess_."

"Tell them I'll visit soon." He says, though he can hardly hear his own voice for the clamor of farewells in the background. "Tell them I love them." It's hard to put the phone down, much less compose himself for meeting up with his co-workers. There's no reflective surface for him to look into so he makes sure his face is dry and hair is tidy before standing up with a deep exhale. Looking around at the smooth walls of the department he didn't know if he'd see again. Back to the grind.

The man turns around and jumps a little when the receptionist holds out a tissue box. He takes one. 

It's hard for him not to feel a little sheepish walking into a room full of applause. It's as gray and uniform as the last, but decorated with last-minute balloons and curly strings. A small potted plant sits on the middle desk with a half-open greeting card, no doubt filled with signatures and well-wishings. Jeff gives him a hug when he walks in. It's awkward, considering their working relationship, so he returns it reluctantly. Puts a smile on his face as co-workers and visitors alike pat his shoulder or clap him on the back, repeating what he's been hearing almost non-stop for the past day and a half -- social niceties about his wellbeing, barely restrained fascination with his brush with Gotham's terror of the month.

Jeff eventually pulls him to one side, still dressed in uniform.

"You look good."

"Thanks."

Blake takes a moment to thank Martha for the plant, glancing at its tag -- 'Wandering Jew'. He laughs good-heartedly even as he wants to pick it up and fling it across the room. Back to the grind, indeed.

"Seriously, I'm surprised you're not missing any limbs. I've heard stories..." Jeff starts when they find a place to sit. Blake doesn't take the bait, raising his voice for both him and the co-workers peering over his shoulder and doing a stellar job of concealing their interest.

"With weather this bad I expect we'll _all_ be missing a few fingers by January."

They take the hint. The air in the room changes, more lukewarm than excited now, and he resists the urge to rub his temples. He's been conservative with just how much he knows about Bane and his mercenaries. The knowledge is too odd and filled with too many details that could prove more distracting than applicable. It's a card he wants to keep in his deck for now -- he knows if he spills all the beans preemptively he'll be detained for who knows how long and wrenched dry of any information, eating away at precious time to actually _do_ something. 

" _I know a thing or two about holding onto information until the right time._ " Gordon had said before they left that morning. " _It's not ideal, but...do what you have to do._ "

He jerks himself back to attention. Jeff is catching him up on the department's recent inner workings, sharing with him a trend that's starting to crop up across the city. Self-titled anarchists had been ransacking and taking hold of courthouses, using them to mete out vicious justice toward politicians, investors and anyone who lingered even a little toward the upper-class. It was something he had only just learned -- yesterday he had spent hours browsing site after site to figure out where Bane's reach had extended and where it ran short. Multiple high-profile individuals had mysteriously gone missing, with many linking it to the same occupied city halls.

Technology was a powerful tool. Where public news stations did their best to dampen the masked man's influence, social media showed another picture entirely. Some people were terrified, sharing the damage that had been done to their cars or windows in the chaos. Others were thrilled, donning cheap Batman masks and posing in front of the destruction. Any other city would have been complete chaos by this point. Gotham residents were used to a different kind of normal, he thinks.

"We've managed to shut down one. Arrested a lot of loons. The other, though...it's heavily armed." Jeff sounds a little out of breath. "Anyone who can hold a gun seems to go there, hence why we've spent more time planning for it. I've heard rumors Bane visits, but who can trust a rumor nowadays?"

"So what is everyone going to do about that one?" Blake asks, politely refusing a slice of cake one of the interns offers him.

The man leans in eagerly and lowers his voice once they're out of earshot.

"We're going to blow it up." He grins. "Foley has already ordered the dynamite. Take back our city one blasted bit at a time."

"What about the people inside?" Blake hisses back.

"Criminals." He responds, exasperated. "You know, the shitbags who've been smashing up buildings and mugging people?"

"Not all of them. That's not worth the risk."

"Give me a damn break, Blake. You're such a softie." His voice wavers, something like pity or revulsion in his tone. "You've been gone for weeks. A lot has changed since then. You haven't _seen_ the shit they've been pulling. The people they've been _killing._ "

Blake narrows his eyes. "There's a better way to do this."

"Of course there is." Jeff says, flatly, no longer whispering. "I'm sure you'll be the one to come up with it. You going to tell Foley about your master plan?"

He just got back and he's already being indundated in the latest of shitty decisions. Blake rises from his seat, pointedly refusing to acknowledge all the eyes starting to turn to him.

"I appreciate you all coming today." He says, mechanically, grabbing the plant and walking out as calmly as he can.

\--

"We can't send you."

It's a terse conversation Blake and Gordon have in the car, hands stuffed into their arms so they don't freeze as the heater struggles to warm the chilly leather interior. They both grow hushed whenever someone walks by, even though the windows are thick and tinted.

"Of course not. She apparently was the reason I wasn't killed outright." Blake says as he puffs into his hands. "What about you?"

The Commissioner shakes his head. "No. You've been associated with me for a while now. They could make the connection."

"Yeah. They were going after you originally, not even me..." He sighs through his nose and taps the back of his head on the car seat, racking his brain for a solution that feels like shrinking time. "We could have Jeff interrogate her."

"Jeff?" He sounds doubtful, pulling out a cigarette. "That arrogant spunk?"

"Yeah, he's a prick, but he's been here longer than I have. He knows the drill. According to him and everyone else the department's been playing Where's Waldo all this time. If _anything_ can narrow it down, even if it's a hint of doubt in her voice or a faster pulse on the lie detector..." The heater is chugging reliably now -- he reaches out his hands and feels his fingertips tingle in response. "You think they'll do anything drastic if we press?"

"That's _if_ she had anything to do with them in the first place." Gordon says, sighing out smoke. "Did you even see Ms. Tate while you were held captive?"

"No. Not even a hint."

"Well, that's all we have, then. Either she had nothing to do with it and we cross off a lead on our list or we've been onto something this entire time." He settles back in his seat. "No need to overcomplicate." The man's practicality is appreciated. He's ever grateful he was signed to work with him from day one.

"You know about their plan to blow up the city hall?"

"They're not blowing it up, technically. Blasting out the doors and gates. Something to rattle them a little and get them to disperse." He chuckles dryly at his expression. "I know. It's not very comforting. I've already offered alternatives and they didn't want to hear a word of it."

"Bombs aren't always predictable. If something goes south a lot of people will get hurt." Blake says, hating how useless he feels. "They always go for the flashy shit."

"You know what you signed up for." He peels down the window and flicks ash onto the snow. "We're just here to keep things going from bad to worse."

\--

Miranda Tate sits by the desk, dressed in a cream fur coat and soft beige heels. Even through video it's surreal to observe her so candidly, a somehow public yet elusive figure who frequently headlined everything from tabloids to thinkpieces. A prodigy who studied at multiple institutions around the world before being hired to teach at Gotham University, graduating before she was able to legally drink. Her past was a mystery, her family even more so. With her work on the Wayne Board she was practically Gotham's darling.

"...Ms. Tate."

She turns and smiles politely at someone off-screen.

The _click_ of a door shutting. The smile fades a touch. "If you don't mind, officer, I have a meeting that is already ten minutes late."

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait a little longer, then." Blake shifts in his seat. Jeff only got polite when he was about to get serious. Couldn't he at least reel her in a little more? Perhaps there was no gentle way to ask what he needed to ask.

"We've received reliable information that you may have a connection with someone we're trying to find."

He sits down across from her.

"Tell me what you know of Bane."

"The terrorist?" She frowns. "Only that he hasn't been caught yet."

"Can you think of any reason why Bane would cite your name?"

"Perhaps he has an interest in clean energy." She says with a laugh.

It's unsuccessful at best. Each question is answered carefully and with poise, the only sign of her discomfort the implication she would be involved in the city's recent events. Her curfew over the past few months matches up perfectly and the lie detector shows only the faintest hints of fluctuation, a disappointingly common result in anyone brought in and interrogated. Jeff, for all his bluster, dissolves into apologism whenever she narrows her eyes or flicks her fingers in frustration.

Gordon looks to him with a soft frown when the interrogation ends. "It was worth a shot."

Blake stares at the screen as everyone recites the usual pleasantries and legal jargon before heading out the door, trying to sort out the unease hanging over his head.

\--

His apartment is chilly and a little dusty from disuse. He's pleased, but not surprised, to see it hadn't been ransacked in the past weeks. He lived in a district closer to downtown, considered just shy of middle-class, and the most he's had to deal with is the occasional stolen mail and dog shit on his front lawn. It was his second year now, as close as he could get to St. Swithin's without actually living there. A few of his classmates had asked him why he didn't live in one of the 'nicer' neighborhoods -- backhanded compliments insinuating he was too good for the place. Little made his stomach churn more than people who thought money gilded character.

He recalls these details a little desperately throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening, trying to situate himself in an old reality that feels just out of his grasp. He does dishes and vacuums, throws out a few clothes he was too lazy to recycle before. Time alone stirs up thoughts he was too busy to pay attention to.

It's been so long since he's spent time with anyone. His kids have been feeling his extended absences for a while now. A drink or two with Gordon had become more rare with their busy schedules. Even Shia had been sitting pretty in Metropolis for almost a year now -- the last time he'd seen her was months back during another awkward office party. He thinks of calling her, then hesitates once the phone's in his hand. He's not even sure where to start catching up.

"Guess I'll have to give you a name." He says after he finds a nice spot for the potted plant on the dining room table. "Foley-age?" He chuckles and rubs his eyes tiredly. "I need to get laid."

He calls Jeff while idling on the couch with a cup of tea -- he forgot he had a stash in the back of his cabinet, some black and green blend that sits pleasantly on his tongue. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to switch it up now and again.

"I appreciate you doing this." He says. "I know a dead end doesn't look good, but you're helping a lot in the grand scheme of things." The guy's feeling frustrated after the failed interrogation, ever a glory hound, but Blake tries to smooth things over with him just the same. He's had his fill of obstacles.

" _Hey, listen. I didn't mean to ruffle your feathers at the party._ " 

It's not much of an apology, but he takes what he can get. "Look, whatever. It's not exactly news I don't like how things are run-" A knock makes him sit up. "I'll call you back. Someone's at the door."

He glances through the peep hole and tenses as Miranda Tate looks back at him.

What the hell was _she_ doing here? Why now? His brain and gut are starting to disagree again. He takes a moment to pick up his phone, turning on the record button and pushing it into his jacket pocket. He keeps his expression neutral as he steps out, shutting the door behind him and crossing his arms in the cold.

"John Blake?" She asks politely. She's wearing gray fur and tall boots now, high enough to disappear past the hem of her coat.

"Yeah. Miranda Tate, right?"

"I apologize for the abrupt visit." She shivers as a breeze hits them both. "It's a little chilly. Could we step inside?"

He makes a show of glancing over his shoulder. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

She opens her mouth in mock shock. "You'd make a lady stand out in the cold?"

"It's just a mess, that's all."

"I know a thing or two about messes." She says with a chuckle. "Like the one you found yourself in just a few weeks ago."

"Yeah." He responds lightly. It's hard to place her age -- from what he knows she's in her early twenties, but her eyes hold the weariness of someone in their fifties. "Come on in."

He shuts the door, but doesn't lock it.

"I heard what happened to you." He hears her say. "I'm sorry."

Blake turns on the spare lamp. "I'm alive. That's more than what some can say."

He turns and freezes at the knife not even an inch from his neck.

"We'll see, anyway."

He slowly holds his hands up in surrender. She smiles appreciatively.

"Sit."

He doesn't search for a seat so much as he's guided by the knifepoint, stepping backwards until the back of his legs hit the couch. He leans down, leans back into the cushion, trying to get as far away as he can as she settles on the footstool in front of him.

"I imagine you must be quite tired of being put in your place." The knife glints horribly in the lamp light, her expression as gentle as a mother speaking to her child. "Rest assured you won't have to worry about that anymore."

' _Bane wasn't lying_.' He thinks, frantically, even as he sits calmly and stares into her cold blue eyes. ' _He wasn't lying about any of it_.'

"It was a much-appreciated effort attempting to slander my good name today. Of course, all you did was waste my time." She crosses her legs politely, the knife not moving an inch. "My men will be here in exactly fifteen minutes. In twenty-five minutes your still-cooling body will be deposited into the lake, the only ones mourning your loss the insufferable hounds who make up your pack and the fish feeding on your corpse." She tilts her head. "But I am nothing if not considerate. You have been through quite a lot, so you deserve to know exactly how Gotham will burn."

"We have fed your city hope on white wings for months now. 'Clean energy will revolutionize the divide between class and bring us closer as a people'. 'Despite the tragedies you've faced year after year the future has never looked brighter'. So on and so forth. Told them everything they want to hear to keep them looking in the wrong direction. Much like how your force says one thing while doing another." A condescending smile. "I'm sure you can relate."

"Despite all their efforts, all their meaningless well-wishings and yearnings and dreams, the fire will rise, courtesy of that very same source of hope. Gotham is a scourge on this Earth. Only something as vast, as _heartless_ , can hope to tame its influence."

"How the hell is that justice...?" Blake whispers, pulse fluttering beneath the knife and just a hair's breadth away from splitting open. "You and Bane are already going after those responsible. I've seen what you've done..." He tries to take in a steady breath. "...why isn't that enough?"

"Justice is a sweet song..." She sighs. "For the gullible. I find this unbecoming in someone paid to read between the lines."

She snatches his hair, twisting his head back and exposing his throat. The skin of his neck is as taut as paper beneath the knife now -- one wrong breath and the point makes a home in his jugular vein.

"You distracted him from what's truly important." His stomach lurches in some horrible mix of shame and shock when she says, "Don't think I didn't hear about those little visits. You were merely a diversion. A tool. He is a visionary, but one who often seeks out hope in the wrong places."

Her expression changes, then, into something regretful. Even sad. It's startling and almost makes him forget his life balancing on a razor's edge.

"He has always wanted to see a better world rise." She says, softly. "I suppose he'll see soon enough."

She pauses when she hears a soft _beep_. His recording is about to end.

He takes the moment to twist to the side, grabbing her wrist to turn the knife away and sending it flipping out of her hand. She tries to wrench out of his grip and nearly yanks him up with her, stronger than he'd give her credit for. He leaps to his feet, striking her in the face and earning a sharp cry. She lashes back, her nails raking across his cheek and peppering blood into his eyes.

He hardly makes it a step across the room before she grabs him, yanking him forward and kneeing him in the stomach -- it's almost enough to bend in his ribs, but not enough to incapacitate him. He slams his head into hers, her neck snapping back from the force, even as the uneven momentum leaves him stumbling and nearly taking her down with him. She's quick. _Too_ quick. Just like Bane. He turns to run only to have his legs kicked out from under him -- he turns around just in time to lash out as she grabs him, kicking her away. She's not even trying to kill him, he realizes. She's wasting his _time_.

"You'll live a tool and die a tool." She says, wiping blood from her nose. Her permed hair is a mess now, falling over her eyes but not quite enough to hide the seething disdain. "Nothing if not consistent."

Blake wipes his cheek as he rises to his feet. They'll be here any minute. Even disarming her everything is still in her favor. He needs her off her game and fast.

"What, upset your _dad_ wanted to spend more time with me?"

It's only a second he sees the cold rage on her face before she rushes him.

To tackle him or claw out his throat, he'll never know. He grabs her, using the force of her movement and his weight to flip her in a mirror image of how the masked man had countered him. She lands on the floor with a hard _thud_ , fully knocking the wind out of her. Miranda lays there, stunned.

"You..." She gasps, furiously, attempting to rise up on her elbows. "Where did you...?"

A car pulls up outside, almost silent save for the crunching of gravel. He turns and bolts through the kitchen. Bursts through the back door and across the complex yard. He climbs fence after fence. He doesn't stop running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really should rename this fic, "John Blake And The Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day". Except that day happens over and over and over and-
> 
> It's interesting how much my style has changed (and hasn't changed) in the span of four years. Considering I didn't finish the most recent NaNoWriMo, this is proving to be a challenging and very fun belated writing experiment.


	16. Leap Of Faith

The man is not well-acquainted with hopelessness.

The energy project, nearly ten years of his life, had been built on the opposite.

It had net _him_ plenty of hope. Hope that his children would grow up removed from the poverty that he and his mother had enjoyed most of their lives, even as many critics raised concerns over the years about the exclusionary results of his clean energy project -- its unavailability to poorer populations, the fallout of available jobs in light of more modern replacements, the rare yet very real possibility of unstable compounds. Miranda Tate had cited these when she and her men had first appeared in his office, armed to the teeth with an ultimatum he couldn't refuse.

Perhaps this was God's punishment for his short-sightedness, sent in the form of a devil's angel and an angel's devil.

He sits at his desk for hours coming up with his next excuse as to why he can't quite make the final push with transforming the reactor. The first two had been rather apt -- the pair had even looked pleased with his assessments that rushing would risk detonating the bomb prematurely -- but the third was when he had seen a glint of suspicion in Bane's eyes.

He knows Bane won't believe him this time. He also knows that a 400 megaton bomb in _anybody's_ hands spells doom. He puts the most conviction he can in his voice when the masked man steps into the room. Repeats the excuses he had been reciting in his head until they almost sounded real enough to be true.

"I just need more time." He finishes, struggling to maintain the man's unwavering gaze.

Bane nods, slowly, and reaches into his pocket.

"I'm afraid we don't have time, Dr. Pavel." He says as he pulls out a long, thin wire. "And neither do you."

\--

It's impossible to sleep. Every time he manages to shut his eyes he sees shadows standing by his bed, if not in his dream chasing after him with tireless footsteps, always just an inch away. After the third time jerking into wakefulness he gives up, throwing off the covers and slinking into the hallway with only the barest natural light peering through the windows to guide him.

_Gotham has been his home for thirty-two years. He knows it like the back of his hand. It pulls him in with its signature suffocating shadows and active steam vents, shields him as he flees for his life in the only way that's available to him. It's only when he's passed the downtown district and zig-zagged his route enough to give a certified track hound an aching nose does he slip behind a corner shop and phone Gordon._

_"Miranda Tate just tried to kill me._ "

" _What?!_ "

_"Just...stay low. Don't go into your house alone. Arm yourself. She said she had men on the way, I've been running...for blocks..." He's wheezing, leaning both on his knees and the brick wall beside him, struggling to keep the phone steady in his trembling hand. Customers leaving the store give him uncertain looks._

_"Are you hurt?"_

_"Mainly my pride." He chuckles weakly. "Nothing new."_

_Gordon insists he return to his place, though Blake equally insists he avoid picking him up on the off-chance he'd been followed. The old man waves away his apologies when he arrives after a rather long walk and bus stint, peering over his shoulder before shutting the door behind them and punching in his security code._

_"There's a lot going on, rookie. I'm just glad you made it out in one piece again." He gives him a rough smile. "Someone's been watching over you."_

_"Tell them I could use an actual break next time, then." Blake says, slumping his back against the door. "I don't know how this could get any worse."_

_"This is Gotham." Gordon responds, flicking on the kitchen light and putting a kettle on the stove. "Could be a _hell_ of a lot worse."_

He takes his time pulling himself together in Gordon's guest bathroom. He trims after a long shower, putting off shaving and doing his best to tousle his hair until he can get to a barber that knows what they're doing. It's shaggier than he's ever had it, almost covering his ears. At this rate he'd never meet a guy, though a part of him wonders if he's finally touching on the 'wild casual' look that's popular in some circles. Another thought, small and betraying, reminds him of how Bane's eyes roamed every time he pulled off his shirt to spar. How gentle he was when patching up his arm. He runs a final frustrated hand through his hair and shoves the razor back where he found it.

Maybe he'd been gullible all along. That the man had only been buttering him up with sweet nothings to better use him later. His gut instinct was reliable, but it wasn't magic. It had to peter out sometime. Naturally, it happened when he needed it most -- a murderer with apparent standards and a hero who vanishes when he's needed most while some everyday schmoe caught in the middle does his best to keep his head attached to his neck. It was like a play that got more and more unfunny with each swing of the curtain.

_Gordon listens to Miranda's recording with a trouble gaze._

_"This may be enough to arrest her." He whispers. "Maybe even convict her."_

__

_"I...I don't know." Blake responds, holding up a hand when Gordon looks at him sharply. "Hear me out. You know and I know we work with trigger-happy assholes. This is vital, but they could absolutely jump the gun here. Pardon the pun." He chooses his next words carefully, even though his brain is now fully melted after his brush with death and marathon through Gotham. "This runs extremely deep. Just going after her won't solve the problem. With Foley still in charge, we'll have ten more to contend with."_

__

_"What are you suggesting, John?"_

_"We need to take this to Waller."_

Mornings are unbearably chilly, but he bundles up in a spare jacket and smokes on Gordon's porch regardless. There's something about almost being offed three times in less than a month that makes the sky seem more blue. Once the horizon starts to brighten he gives Foley a call -- while he couldn't outright stop them, the least he could do was try.

" _Little early, don't you think?_ " There's almost no background noise, suggesting his daughter was still in bed.

"Better than ringing you up at the last second tomorrow." He says, trying to sound apologetic even though he feels anything but. "I'm going to visit city hall before you detonate it."

" _Why's that_?"

"There are a lot of rumors about the masked man visiting there. I could question some people undercover. See if I can't unearth anything useful before the place is blasted apart and walled off by security tape."

A snort. " _Why not just wait until after we're done? It won't exactly be going anywhere, you know_."

"It's going to be pretty different before and after, sir. It's worth a try."

" _Huh. Well, we'll be at the city hall at eight sharp. Get it done before then_." A pause. " _Oh, and tell the commissioner to stop worrying already. He already has enough grey hairs_."

Blake holds his sigh until after the man hangs up. Foley was difficult on the best of days and he has to run the conversation in his head a few times over before he accepts that he's actually been given a chance to warn the inhabitants inside. Bane definitely wasn't wrong there -- it was _much_ easier to lie to the weak-minded.

All he had to worry about was potentially being found out if his superiors don't get the answers they want when the occupants 'mysteriously' leave. _If_ a bunch of strangers took his advice in the first place, that was. What will he say to the city hall goers that's even remotely convincing? He mulls over this as he heads into the kitchen, eager for a cup of coffee to get his day started off proper. Dosing the grounds he jerks to attention when he hears Bane on the television, turning around to see him on the screen holding up a picture of Harvey Dent.

" _...who has been held up to you as the shining example of justice..._ "

He can only just make out the prison in the background. The reporters filming him. For the most part the man's moved around in secret -- seeing him being filmed in public is jarring and immediately puts him on edge.

" _...let me tell you the truth about Harvey Dent, from the words of Gotham's police commissioner..._ "

The masked man looks over the bundle of papers in his hand, as if right at him.

" _...James Gordon_."

The commissioner is sitting on the couch, hands folded beneath his chin and watching intently. He's dressed casually, without his trademark jacket, as if he was interrupted halfway through. Blake's stomach continues to sink as Bane reads the incriminating note, brows furrowed as if the writing on the page disgusts him to his core.

" _The Batman didn't murder Harvey Dent, he saved my boy..._ "

He looks down at the man that had almost become like family to him.

" _...but I can no longer live with my lie..._ "

Tries to figure out what to say.

" _It is time to trust the people of Gotham with the truth and it is time for me to resign_."

"All those men locked up for eight years in Blackgate...and denied parole on the Dent Act...based on a lie?" He asks, softly. The man jerks and turns around. The information could be completely false. Another red herring to send them chasing after shadows, but he knows the truth before Gordon even opens his mouth.

"Is it true...?"

\--

He doesn't use his car. It's less conspicuous to blend into the crowd on foot.

The city hall looks much like it always does, save for the casual activity mulling around the stairs and lingering in the doorways. He can see the logic. Open doors meant anyone can come in, provided they pass a brief patdown and visual once-over. The downside may be the occasional dissenter finding their way in, but it's not much a group of armed, angry people can't feasibly handle. Its brief reputation already speaks for itself -- it's trust that's being promoted as much as vengeance. A little inspiring, if he was being honest with himself.

It's still dim out, the surrounding black buildings starting to flick on their lights in a pale imitation of the starry sky vanishing above. He lets a cigarette keep him company as he plans his method of entry. Miranda's recording sits uneasily on his phone and private repository now, a spark that could easily go any way once unleashed. It would be so easy to just take it to his superiors. Give them something tangible to chase, be heralded as a hero for a week or two before being shoved back into his box.

With so few people to trust his entire world feels like a tightrope. He can't find confidence in the impulsive jackasses at the top of the ladder. Not in his glory hungry colleagues. Not even Gordon, somehow. Yesterday had been incredibly frustrating -- the man was convinced he'd done the city a favor, however regretfully, but even now the betrayal that sat in his chest felt like a knife. He stares at the million possibilities before him, each one more uncertain than the last and still tinged with bitterness and leftover fear. He tosses his cigarette in the trash. First things first. He was going to deter anybody in the building from lingering before Foley enacts his raid. Then he was going to try and find Bane.

Nobody looks at him twice when he approaches (he's starting to see the wisdom in letting his stubble remain). The patdown by the self-appointed peacekeepers at the front is brief, almost careless -- his chest clutches when the man touches the gun in his holster. Lifting his jacket to check, they wave him in after a few seconds' muttered words.

"You let that go off and it'll be a dozen barrels to your head." The guy says with a chuckle. "Welcome to city hall, brother."

The dark wooden interior almost entirely swallows up the mingled light of matches and cellphones, the casual hubbub innately bizarre in the normally hushed prestigious building. He keeps his head low whenever a mercenary walks by, their scarves and armor easy to spot, even as he doesn't recognize any of their faces. He idly wonders where Food Guy could've gone to lately. Barsad. Salim. He soon loses track of the hundreds of people and it's all he can do to squeeze between them and make his way to the main room.

Some sort of court hearing is being held there, a man with a tattered suit sitting amidst towering stacks of papers and speaking imperiously to someone in the middle of the floor. Daggett's second-in-command is sitting stiffly in a chair, he sees, pleading with the judge to spare him.

"C-Call Bane." The man stutters, much to the sneers of the surrounding audience. "I am...I am one of you."

"Bane has no authority here." The impromptu judge replies. "This is merely a sentencing hearing."

He's offered two choices -- death or exile. The man chooses the latter, then marched out to the frozen lake just outside and told to walk as far as he can. Blake peers over the cluster of eager heads and sees the man is flanked by a few others shuffling precariously on thin planks of white ice.

"Hopefully his cool don't crack out there!" Someone yells from the crowd. A few hearty laughs ripple around him. It's the woman he saw on the tipped over car back when he escaped -- she's wearing the same odd pigtails, though is now more bundled up with what seems to be a long metal bat strapped to her back.

Bane's name crops up here and there as he makes his way around, pretending to be a wide-eyed new recruit and asking basic questions. Sometimes Batman. "Why does Bane wear that thing, anyway?" He asks a younger adult texting on their phone in the corner. "I mean, it's gotta be for more than just show."

"Honestly, I don't think anyone knows." They respond after a moment's deliberation, eyes not leaving the screen. "It looks way creepier up close, though..."

"Oh, I know!" One of their peers say, sitting nearby on the ground with a laptop open. "It's 'cause he's missing half his face."

"It's to conceal his identity, you numbnut." Another says, wearing a similar scarf to the mercenaries. "Kinda like the Joker did?"

They finally look up from their phone, irritated. "You know, why don't you go upstairs and ask him yourself, smart aleck?" This escalates the hubbub to indiscernible levels, though it almost makes Blake's heart skip a beat. He knew it. He's _here_.

That strange woman walks over then, flanked by two large dogs and popping gum. She gestures to their little impromptu circle. "Why y'all so curious, anyway?" She asks, a twinkle in her eyes. "Think he's cute under all that?"

A few chuckles. A scoff. Blake feels heat rise to his face and pretends to be preoccupied with something on his jacket. She lowers her head and peers up at him with a smile. "Hey, don't I know you from somewhere...?"

"Uh, yeah. Might've seen you around." He gestures to his head. "Don't see many people wear pigtails nowadays."

She grins. "We all gotta stand out somehow, darling." She holds out a hand. "Call me Harleen. Everyone does."

He reaches out to shake it. "Uh, Rob. Nice to meet-"

A bizarre yelp has him leaping back and reaching for his pistol. They're not dogs -- they're _hyenas_ , as large as shepards and now sticking their heads out from behind her with their jaws bared in what could be a yawn or a snarl.

"Relax, buddy." The guy with the scarf says. "They don't bite unless she says so."

Harleen _clicks_ her tongue chidingly, pulling something out of her pocket and holding it out to them. They eat straight out of her hand, suddenly as docile as any domesticated pet. "Sorry, darling. They still get a bit edgy around strangers."

"No kidding." He breathes, wiping his forehead.

"So, why're you here, Rob?" She asks, looking him over. "Just checkin' out the show?"

As much as he wants to ask about how the _hell_ she got her hands on two full-grown hyenas, he decides to save it. "Yes and no. I heard the cops have their sights set on this place today." That gets everybody's attention. "Thought I should spread the word."

Harleen cocks her head. "Where d'ya hear that?"

It's time to tell a white lie. "Did a little hacking. Got this." He pulls out his phone and clicks play, turning up the volume over the clutter of voices surrounding them.

_"We'll be at the city hall at eight sharp."_

"Who's that?" The woman with the laptop asks, leaning forward to better hear.

"From the sounds of it, Foley." He replies, playing it again. "Head of the department, last I checked."

"You sure that's him?"

"Is it worth being wrong?" He stuffs the phone back into his pocket. "I don't want to see anyone get hurt. Gotham's dangerous enough as it is without taking unnecessary risks."

Murmurs of curiosity. To his surprise a few others had leaned in, listening to their conversation with rapt attention. A few doubtful glances are exchanged in the silence, Harleen idly stroking her hyenas' heads all the while. He feels a trickle of relief when one finally says, "Well, they _did_ raid the municipal court last week..."

"What're we supposed to do, then, huh?" One interrupts. "Just keep running 'cause some guy tells us to? I don't think so."

"It's better to run and live to fight another day." He says, as mildly as he can. The last thing he wants is to start a fight. "Crackdowns are only going to get more common from here. Just spread the word, all right? It doesn't hurt to be careful."

Harleen smiles. "Well, ain't that nice of ya." She pats him on the shoulder. "We'll keep that in mind, doll."

It's better than nothing. He glances at his watch. It's almost 7:30. He bids the group farewell, hyenas included -- Harleen tells him he can pet them, but he politely refuses and cites his current need for both hands.

One story. Two. Three. It's bigger than it looks from the outside. He doesn't have a lot of time to linger for details as he climbs each staircase and occasionally ducks behind a corner when he sees what seem to be guards patrolling and checking for suspicious activity. It's rare, however, with the upper levels receiving far less foot traffic than below. It's only when Barsad walks by, reading something in a notebook, does he pay rapt attention. Bane must be nearby.

Once the man is out of sight he backtracks from where he seemed to have been walking, peeking into rooms and skipping the ones with locked doors. It's at the furthest end of the hall does he see a room slightly ajar, though the light isn't on. It's hard to place why he feels the man would be there, of all places, but the creeping feeling up his spine is impossible to ignore.

The door doesn't creak whatsoever when he opens it and steps in, likely due to the meticulously clean nature of the building even after its takeover. The room is entirely washed out without artificial light, almost as dim as the dusk outside. The faint glow from the windows provide just enough of a clue to tell him it was a repository of some sort, shelves of books reaching the ceiling and filling the air with a musty scent.

Bane sits on the far end of the room, bundled in his worn sheepskin coat and weaving a long, red thread. He's wearing an armored vest, layered with what seems like plates, mesh and fabrics in some homespun touch on military might. Menacing, yet practical. Blake shuts the door and locks it carefully.

"Still didn't teach me how to do a cross-cable." He says when the man looks up.

Bane's eyes crinkle into a smile.

"Speak of the devil." He purrs.

Blake takes a step forward, even as his heart lurches in something resembling exhilaration.

"Missed you too."

"To what do I owe this visit?" He asks softly, the air in the room almost unnaturally still.

"You've been fucking with my life a lot lately, Bane." He replies with a shrug, pulling out his pistol and pointing it at him. "I'm just here to return the favor."

Like usual he had to give the man credit. He doesn't so much as blink, staring at him as if he had asked about the weather.

"It is a credit to your character you are still standing." He murmurs, gaze still on him, fingers still weaving the thread into some pattern he can't quite parse out. "Not many pull a gun on me and elude consequence."

"Come on. You know from personal experience I pack a punch."

"I also know from personal experience our matches were a little..." Those dark eyes wander a little before settling again. "...wanting."

Blake swallows the dry patch in his throat and puts his other hand below the handle to steady his aim. ' _Easy, Blake._ '

"Your escape was well-timed." Bane continues amicably. "I was most bereft to find you had slipped between my fingers without so much as a farewell."

He doesn't know about his and Salim's collaboration. He's careful to hide his relief. Bane studies him for one long moment, then pockets the thread with a soft _hum_. The canny bastard.

"Ah."

"Don't hurt him. It was _my_ idea."

"I had my suspicions, but you did not seem the type..." A short laugh, almost a wheeze. Shit, he actually sounds impressed. It almost puts a smile on his face despite it all. The masked man holds a very precarious and dangerous spot in his life. He's going to stop running and figure out exactly what it holds.

"So this newfound freedom has your path crossing with mine once more." He says, affable tone suggesting a conversational gesture. Knowing Bane, it could very easily be the opposite.

"What can I say, you almost had me going there with all your talk about justice and accountability." Blake says, slowly crossing the room, stopping when he's close enough to count each silver wire on his mask. "I've finally seen what you've been up to all this time. Saw what you did to the psychiatric ward nearby. Daggett's lapdog, just now. Hell, you even outed Gordon in front of everybody. Made me think you were onto something."

"Have you figured me out now, detective?"

"It's what I do." 

"And what have you learned?"

"That you're a real piece of work."

Another chuckle, not quite muted by the mask. He's never heard him laugh this much before, even if the sound itself could be confused for a cough.

"Gotham's never lacked for people wanting to make a social impact, for better and for worse. So, for old time's sake..." He finishes. "... _why_ are you doing all this?"

Even with a gun to his face he doesn't play along. "You said yourself my handiwork is clear." His gaze becomes searching now. "Where does this doubt come from, John Blake?"

"It comes from something interesting your friend told me." Blake's voice darkens. "Something about blowing up the entire city?"

The good humor in Bane's eyes flickers.

"Who is this friend you speak of?"

"She's a friend of yours, too."

The humor vanishes. He rises to his feet. Blake cocks the trigger -- Bane pauses, but only just.

" _Explain_." He growls. "Or I won't hesitate to end this now." Maybe it's a sense of duty to see things through to the end that he even bothered coming to find him instead of leaving him at the mercy of a pack of dynamite. Maybe it's his own damned curiosity that keeps him from pulling the trigger and tying up a loose end. All he knows for sure is he doesn't like the look in the man's eyes -- something too close to grief.

"...Who?" Bane repeats, hardly a whisper.

"Miranda." His finger trembles on the trigger. Something wasn't right. "...and she sounded pretty confident with her knife to my throat."

"No."

"'Gotham is a scourge on this Earth'.

"That is not the plan."

"'We've fed your city hope on white wings-"

"Cease your _lies_ -"

"I _know_ what I heard!"

His voice cuts through the silence of the room. Bane is only a few feet away, staring him down -- the gun is the closest Blake has to a physical compromise with a man that could make short work of humans and beasts alike, and even then he's not so sure. Fear and confidence attempt to reason themselves rapid-fire in his mind.

He knows doubt. He knows denial better. Bane is dishonest out of pragmatism. He learned this early on. When he lies, it's rarely and with purpose -- more out of omittance or toying than a straight-up falsehood. Bit by bit, everything falls into place. Not only is he telling the truth, he's _horrified_.

' _He's always wanted to see a better world rise. I suppose he'll learn soon enough._ '

A blast turns both their heads. He hunches instinctively to the ground.

"What the hell." He whispers. He looks at his watch -- it's only 7:45.

The floor trembles. Muffled cries erupt below, erratic and growing more shrill by the second. They're too high up to see anything, but even then flashes blink just beyond the windows. "No..." He breathes, breaking his gaze from the masked man to look about him. "Goddamn it...!"

A _thud_ he feels in his chest. Another that sends him to the floor. Windows shattering just beyond the door. Somehow, he knows the building is starting to come down. Bane grabs him by the front of his shirt and drags him to his feet.

"Is this _your_ doing?" He rasps into his face.

"No..." Blake gasps, trying to pull away. "No, I _tried_ to warn them...!"

Someone is pounding on the door. Barsad's voice attempts to cut through the chaos.

"They have us surrounded. Three explosions have been-"

Bane lowers him, slowly, the serene fury in his eyes somehow more deadly than the explosions going off outside. Blake holsters his pistol with fumbling hands, runs over to the door and yanks it open. The mercenary stops yelling mid-sentence, freezing at the sight of him. Bane's booming voice snaps them both back to reality.

" _We can't stay_."

There's no time to ask questions. In a flash the three of them are running down the long hall, though Blake can hardly see anything for the dust and sheet rock falling like clumps of snow. He leaps down the first stairway in a bound, hitting the ground rolling and tearing across the following floor as fast as his legs can carry him...only to skid to a halt at the gaping hole where the second stairway used to be. He could make it with a running start, but only just.

" _Get them to safety_." Bane yells to Barsad, who bolts past them both and clears the gap in a single bound. He disappears into the smoke billowing up from below. A second later another beam falls right through the ruined staircase, sending sparks and splinters scattering over him. The hole is even bigger now -- there's no way down _or_ across without risking a pair of broken legs. He turns to warn Bane, only to hear an ominous creak above.

He curls into a ball and covers his head to stave off the worst of the damage, but the debris never comes. Blake looks up to see Bane hunched over him, sheets of white scattering from his back onto the floor.

"Sh-Shit." He tries to say, coughing as the kicked-up dust tries to make a home in his lungs. "Shit, are you okay...?"

Bane shakes off the rubble like water, grabbing him and pulling him up with him. Fire is making its way up the aged wood with a vengeance. He can't see more than a foot in front of him, nothing but the massive glass windows lining the walls like searchlights through the hot fog.

"You fuckers. That's not a few packs." He whispers, walking backwards into the hallway. "Why..."

Bane grabs him again, shakes him. "You may mourn the immorality of your department later." He hisses. "We go through the window."

Blake's eyes widen. "That's a huge drop!"

Bane lets go, turns and makes his way down the hall. "For you."

' _A leap of faith_ ', he thinks hysterically as Bane grabs a wooden bench and lifts it like it weighs nothing. ' _This one may just kill me_.'

With a heave he slams it into the thick pane. Once, twice, it shatters, raining glass into the air. The next second he jumps through the open space. Blake leaps after him before his brain even has sense to pause. Wind whistles in his ears as he falls like a stone toward the freezing water and ice below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knew Bane liked Baneposting?


	17. It's Time For A Change

_Ice so thin it shatters like glass, water so frigid it burns. He screams upon impact, regretting it immediately as the cold claws its way down his throat and turns his brain to stone. He stares at the silent, dark world he's found himself in, as vivid as a nightmare except for the fact he's horribly awake. He barely registers the chunks of rubble trailing through the water, nor the body of Daggett's second-in-command bobbing like a fish in the sea_.

_Somehow his head breaks water, hair instantly freezing to his face. One second he's scrabbling for purchase on slabs of ice. The next he's in a van, massive and strangely empty. He shivers so violently his very bones seem to rattle, swaying and bumping against a leather seat as it rounds wall after white wall. A hot hand on his cheek. Flames flickering in the grill of Bane's mask like a furnace._

_'You're...you're on fire...' He's panicking now. He wants to sit up but his body won't obey. He's no longer cold. Why won't he wake up?_

_'Breathe.' The hand leaves, then returns. 'You're going into shock.'_

"I can't, I..."

"Breathe, Blake. My _god_ , what the hell have you been up to..."

Reilly's here...? _How?_ He shouldn't be at his apartment. Miranda could be back with her men at any minute. He's in danger. Hell, they're both in danger. The man's not a fighter -- she'd gut him. Him and everyone else at the orphanage. Something damp pats his brow and the relief washes over him like a wave.

It's only temporary. There's an unbearable, tight pain right behind his eyes. He's too hot to pass out, too weak to move. Everything hurts. He tosses and turns in-between lucid dreams and bouts of retching, even though there never seems to be anything in his stomach. Time loses all meaning and every moment he opens his eyes it seems to be a different part of the day, sometimes a different place entirely. He wishes he were back in that freezing water.  _Anything_ would be better than this terrible heat...

He wakes up again to find three boys by the bed, talking to each other and occasionally looking his way. Even with his vision blurred he can pinpoint Tiya's high-pitched candor, Amir's soft murmur. He opens his mouth to speak, but he's not even sure what comes out. He thinks they show him things. Something colorful. He doesn't remember what they tell him, nor why Reilly comes in and urges them to leave. Why? He hasn't seen them in a while...

Dreams of floating. Drifting on a white blanket across an endless gray ocean. There's nobody around for once, not even following him from a distance, and it's as disturbing as it is welcome. The gentle rocking from where he lays is jolted and he opens his eyes to familiar cream walls -- Reilly has settled onto the bed. The light by the window is bright now. He must've fallen asleep again.

"Thank heavens you're awake. I was starting to wonder if I'd have to tube feed you."

He lets some of the boys visit him again, though he's still urged not to move too much. There's a pile of gifts by his bed. A handful of candy bars, a get-well card, a hat. One is a pencil drawing of him with bat wings, signed by Amir. He hugs him as best he can and tells him it's going up on his wall first chance he gets. They're pulled out by Reilly again after what seems like no time at all. He fights the sleepiness as best he can, if only to figure out the massive gap leftover in his mind.

"How...did you get here?"

Reilly squeezes excess water from a rag before pressing it to his forehead. " _You_ showed up on _our_ doorstep in the middle of the night a few days ago, freezing and speaking in tongues. Explosions or Gotham being set on fire or...no, don't try to sit up."

"You guys shouldn't...be at my place..." He murmurs, everything growing pleasantly dim. "It's just..." The rag pats his forehead again. "...not safe..."

He vaguely remembers Reilly staring at him sadly before everything goes dark.

Sleep gives him just enough strength to move, though the only traveling he does the next day and a half is back and forth from the bed and bathroom, alternating between dry heaving and sipping lukewarm water. Once he doesn't have the strength to make a return trip, all but carried by Reilly back into his room. His fever breaks the same night, leaving him weak but finally coherent. With the returned awareness comes the backwater of the past few days and all the free time in the world to mull it over.

Screams. Explosions. Wailing sirens. Glass dancing on wooden floors. Smoke in his lungs. Bane staring down at him through shadow and plumes of white.

He'd been set up. That much was for sure. Somehow, that was the _least_ of his problems. He should've been killed by now. Sheer dumb luck seemed to be the only thing nipping at his heels, though his pride railed at the thought. What was left of it, anyway, and he was starting to wonder how durable it had been in the first place. Did everyone think he was dead again? Did anyone there even _care?_ What about the bomb? What about...

If he were more reasonable he'd take it all as a sign to lay low and bask in his good fortune. Instead he couldn't shake off the feeling he was on the cusp of something horrible and incredible all at once. That he had to stick out the chaos of his life just a little bit longer. It wasn't a hopeful predilection. He didn't know who to turn to. He was _sick_ of being sick. Sick of being injured. Running. Hiding. Plotting. He wants to rest. He's fed up with being bedridden.

He had long since forgotten how to pray the uncertainty away. His mother would've chided his faith, ever so gently, and encouraged him to send a few honest words above. He stares at the beige ceiling, pulls at his hair, and struggles with himself.

Father Reilly returns with a small pot of broth. The scent makes his empty stomach ache.

"We had a break-in earlier this week. I try to keep the news off." Reilly says, visibly relieved when he drinks the broth and keeps it down with little effort. "Especially for the youngest. Don't, uh...want them worrying too much. They got enough on their plate as is." He shifts in his seat. "They hear anything from kids at school and I just twist the truth a little. 'Bane's a garden-variety robber'. 'Slow news week'. 'Focus on your studies'. You know."

"Yeah..." He sighs, the soup relaxing his sore muscles. "That's...that's good. They'll find out sooner or later. Might as well let them live in the fantasy a little longer." His subconscious gnaws at him. ' _What good did that do you? What good did that do anybody?_ '

He chews on his lip and immediately regrets the coppery taste. "Maybe I _should_ tell them." He says, sitting up. "Go easy, though. Not too...detailed."

"Woah, take it easy." Reilly pushes him down. "You've been through a lot."

"Just let me talk to them." He says, even as his strength already threatens to leave him.

The man frowns. "How are you supposed to get better if you keep moving?"

Somehow he feels even more helpless than when he woke up bound in a cell. Blake tries not to sound pleading, even though it's the only emotion that makes any sense. "Let me see them before something else gets in the way. Please."

Reilly watches him from the edge of the bed, concern thinning his mouth. With a sigh he turns back to the pot. It's another few moments before he speaks.

"I get it, Blake. You've had a lot on your plate, too. But there's something about getting old that makes you hone in on what's important." He refills his bowl and holds it out to him. "You've, uh...been at this for a while."

Blake takes it, leaning against the wall and watching the man attempt to sort out his thoughts. "You're trying to do some good. But maybe you're overlooking the good you've already done." The old man runs a hand through his fine white hair.

"It's been rough without you. Gotham's going through another damned crisis and it's all I can do to keep them out of trouble, much less encourage them to get grades decent enough to get into one of the cheapest colleges. These boys need a role model. Television and computers aren't a good substitute."

He opens his mouth to say more, then shakes his head.

"They just...don't get a lot, Blake. And I'm not much."

He knows what he means. It's an aspect of his life he's had to reconcile with every time he woke up and went to work. That, despite all his good intentions, he had become little more than a spectre in the only family he's had for years.

"Don't say that, Reilly. You're plenty." Blake responds softly, running a thumb along the rim of the bowl. He forgoes the spoon and drinks the rest straight from the bowl.

"Thank you for taking care of them, Father." He says as he lays down. "...and for taking care of me."

\--

A movie plays on the television when he walks out into the living room the following afternoon. He recognizes the characteristic screeching of tires and manic laughter.

"You guys watching Arkham Asylum: The Beginning again?" They whirl around from where they're sitting on the couches, floor or spare chairs. "Still can't get over the guy they picked to play Batman."

" _BLAKE!_ "

He staggers and laughs as they flood him with hugs. Either they knew he was sick from environmental reasons or they didn't give one shit about potentially catching the flu. Either way he's happier than he ever remembers being, ruffling their hair and squeezing them each in turn.

"Are you sure you're feeling better?" Amir asks, brows knitted with worry. "You were _really_ sick..."

"Yeah. Nothing Reilly's soup can't cure."

"I helped a little." He hears Joel say from the cluster of bodies. "I opened the window so the air wasn't stuffy."

He picks him up and hugs him tightly -- he's still the smallest kid in the room, but his curly hair is starting to grow out.

"Have you grown?" He asks, holding him on his hip. "You're almost up to my knee now."

Joel wrinkles his nose. "It's 'cause I'm wearing shoes!"

Blake whispers conspiratorially into his ear. "Don't tell anyone, but I'm _real_ short without my shoes on."

Joel whispers back, though his voice is anything but indoor level. "We can buy you bigger ones."

Reilly offers to make them lunch, so he hangs out in the living room with the boys and watches movies -- only Finn is absent, Jay informing him he's out working on his car again. They ask him what he's been up to, sitting closer than they normally would and suggesting they want to know about more than just his daily rounds.

It's a little easier to relay his cluster of near-death experiences with the exaggerated danger fantasy playing just a few feet away. He starts with waking up in the sewers somewhere beneath Gotham, keeping the plot elements of the past few weeks as organized as he can with his brain still feeling like mush. He doesn't butter up the more gruesome elements, trusting his boys to keep relevant information to themselves.

"Did you see Bane?" Amir asks, eyes round with horror. Blake chuckles.

"To say the least."

"What's he _like?_ " Tiya pipes up from across the room.

How succinct can he be without lying?

"...Scary?"

Their voices suddenly raise in a chorus, pelting him with question after question -- how he survived an encounter with the man, why he wears his mask, whether or not he could best the Joker in a one-on-one match. He idly wonders how Bane would respond to that last one.

Joel crawls into his lap while they're talking, new cookbook under his arm. Blake settles into the couch and starts to read it with him ("Aww!" they all moan in unison), helping him with technical words he doesn't understand yet.

"See... _Seh_...See..." He stammers, poking at a word on the page as if to prod the meaning out of it.

"Sieve. It's a tool for separating some parts from others."

Joel looks troubled. Blake looks up to the ceiling in thought. "You know the spaghetti strainer we have?"

The boy's eyes light up with understanding. He looks down at the page again, sounding the word out carefully. Blake's chest is warm with pride -- the kid was a dogged learner. "You can use a sieve when making different batters. Gets all those little chunks out and makes the final product nice and fluffy."

He turns page after page, skipping the ones that don't interest him, only to suddenly stop and stare at a rather brilliant photo of blueberry muffins surrounded by stylishly placed kitchen utensils and potted flowers. Blake puts his chin on his shoulder. "You like those?"

"Yeah...I wanna put lots of berries in mine so it all looks blue." He touches the picture, quiet for a moment. "...Can you help me make some?"

Blake tries not to look startled. This is the first he's asked to participate with cooking since he arrived. "Of course. We'll have a baking day this week." He puts on an affected sigh. "I mean, I don't know if I'd put in enough blueberries on my _own_..."

Joel giggles and pats his arm. "I'll be real good at that. You can do the sieve."

His face falls when his phone buzzes. Blake gives him a squeeze before getting up. "I'll make this quick." He checks the number -- Gordon.

' _Real quick_.' He thinks bitterly, leaning in the doorway to the living room with his back to the background noise. A few of the boys sit next to Joel and pick up where he left off.

" _John, tell me you're in one piece_."

"Last I checked."

" _What the hell were you thinking visiting city hall?_ "

"I was thinking I could do some good for once, that's what."

" _Look..._ " He can almost hear the man scratching his mustache agitatedly. " _I did what I had to, Blake_."

"Yeah, that's what you said. Not sure what good it did the hundreds of people in Blackgate, but from the looks of it they won't have to worry about it anymore."

Silence on the other end. For a second he thinks he's hung up.

" _Where are you now?_ "

"Swithin's."

" _I see. Well...lay low for a bit, all right? It's all damage control at this point._ "

"That's the plan. Have you met with Waller?"

" _I was going to wait for you. I'll be straight with you, rookie, we need all the help we can get right now_."

His stomach sinks -- even when he was pissed at the guy he still took him into consideration. "Well, I guess I'll be straight with you, too. I can't do this anymore."

He looks over his shoulder at the boys. Amir is curled up on the far end of the couch, only occasionally looking up from his sketchbook. Tiya is too close to the television, chattering over the dialogue much to the groans of the other boys. Joel is now covering his face with his hands, hiding from the fight scenes starting to erupt on the screen.

"I'm...not doing any good there. All I got to show so far is a voice clip in legal limbo and the clothes on my back. Shit, not even that. They all think I'm just some hothead who wants to break rules for the hell of it, anyway. I know I haven't been around for that long, but I just can't take this anymore. I want to _fight_ injustice...not contribute to it."

He can just make out Gordon's soft sigh over the television.

" _I figured as much_." Another pause. " _You know me. I won't start telling you what to do with your life now. Understand that Gotham is going to need people who give two shits about where this city is going, no matter what it says above their name tag. Whatever you do, go all the way_."

He shuts his eyes tight, trying to sort out the cluster of relief and misery in his chest.

"I'll be in touch."

" _...Be careful, John._ "

Although his illness was finally dying down, its aftereffects make themselves clear when he starts feeling hot and tired in the middle of the next film. He asks the boys to give him five and goes outside for a smoke, as much for the cold air on his skin as a light buzz. It's not snowing, but the lack of padding makes everything extra chilly. He's already considering heading back inside when he remembers.

He walks through the back alley beside the St. Swithin's main house to the small lot Reilly owns, leaning against the building to watch him work. He's bundled from head to toe in winter wear, gray cap pushing down his shaggy hair over his eyes.

"Hey."

Finn pauses in the middle of wiping the windshield. "Blake! I didn't know you were awake yet." He grins. "You look like shit."

Blake coughs out a laugh. "Thanks. I'd say the same thing, but I don't pick on people below five foot two." He snatches the rag out of the air when Finn flings it.

"Five _three_ , thank you very much. And give me that back, I'm not done yet."

He tosses it over the car hood. "So, update me. How's your new job going? I know it doesn't seem like much, but they'll put a good word in for you."

The boy shrugs and continues rubbing at the glass doggedly -- even in the dim light it's shining. Blake takes a long drag and observes the additional touches on the car. New wheels, by the looks of it. A glance in the interior and he sees a pair of fuzzy dice.

"You, uh, pay off the rest of your bail?"

"...Yeah."

Blake raises his eyebrows. "That's convincing."

"I said what I said." He fiddles with the rag in his hands, suddenly surly as he gets when he feels he's being ordered around. Blake knows better than to try to soothe his feelings -- he gives the kid some space and takes another drag.

"I just..." He starts, uncertainly. "...I just have another thousand to go. A thousand and fifty, to be exact. It's like I want to hurry up before it vanishes, you know? Buy it before something else gets in the way and has to make me put it off again." He says in a rush. "I know that doesn't make sense, but..."

"No, I get it." Blake gestures to the gleaming Corolla. "You're just not going to be able to drive it 'til your record gets cleaned up, that's all."

It's been a while since he's been put in the role of big brother, he realizes. He may have helped pay off some of his bail from his little shoplifting escapade, but it's clear a foundation didn't actually stick. He watches Finn fight down the shame behind a mask of stubborn defiance, twisting the cleaning rag in his hands. He really had been away too often and for too long.

"...You know I used to be a bike courier?"

"No." Finn walks over and leans against the wall beside him, hands stuffed in his pockets. "I bet you hated it."

"Yeah. Constantly risking my neck to bring mail or take-out just didn't seem worth it. Did it for almost a year to pay off student loans and because I still couldn't afford a car. Got caught for running a red light to deliver a late package and taken in. I ended up asking them for a new job while they were debating whether or not to fine me or stick me behind bars." He chuckles -- the memory almost seems absurd now. "They laughed in my face, gave me a ticket then handed me an application for basic training."

"So...is the moral of the story I gotta stick with what I don't like 'til it works out?"

"More like go for what you want and do it smarter than I did." He flicks his cigarette and looks around for somewhere to throw it away. "I don't ever want you to quit on what you want."

"So when are you quitting smoking?" Finn snickers, plucking it out of his hand and walking over to a small can in the corner of the alley.

Blake snorts. "When I stop being stressed. So, never." Finn turns back to him, then freezes in place. He opens his mouth to ask him what's wrong.

"Listen to the kid. You'll get lung cancer before you know it."

Blake stiffens and turns at the strange voice. Two men are standing in the entryway to the alley. He jerks his head for the boy to move closer to him. Finn glances at the car then complies, slowly walking over to where he stands. The original speaker's expression is hard to discern in the shadow, but he picks out the feigned hurt in his voice.

"C'mon, don't be like that." They move out of the shadow, bundled in heavy jackets with their faces partially obscured by thick scarves and drawn hoods. For a second he thinks they're mercenaries, but the colors (and their stance) are all wrong -- everyday joes. "We just want to chat."

"Yeah? About what, my smoker's cough?" Blake responds dryly. Finn barely conceals a laugh, hastily looking at the ground when the humor doesn't translate. The two men split, moving to stand on either side of them.

"You're a little cold, buddy." He pats something in his pocket, a thinly-veiled threat. "Think finances."

Blake studies them. "You the guys that's been giving the orphanage a visit now and again?"

"Not a clue what you're talking about." The man gestures to his person. "Empty your pockets."

Not a dull _damn_ moment. Righteous anger burns in the pit of his stomach, less for his sake and more for the sixteen year-old attempting and failing to glare the two thugs down. He starts to reach into his pocket, only for the other man to snap, "Stop!" He slaps his partner's shoulder. "He could have a weapon, dumbass."

' _Their brains had to kick in sometime_.' Blake thinks sourly. He changes his expression to something a little more nervous.

"Look, I don't want any trouble." He says. "My wallet's in my pocket, just...don't hurt the kid."

The first speaker pulls out a knife.

"Won't have to if you comply."

He starts patting him down, the knifepoint held his way to discourage any action. Blake glances around him. He'll have to apologize to Finn later.

"Where the hell is your wal-"

Blake stomps on the man's foot -- his yelp of pain is cut short when he grabs him by his hair and slams his head into the side of the wall.

He's not a seasoned fighter -- he can see his tell coming a mile away. One sloppy swipe and Blake snatches him by the wrist, twisting his arm to send it from his hands and striking his face into the cold brick again. He sees Finn reach down and snatch it out of the corner of his eye, backing away to stand by the car.

"Get inside, Finn!" He yells.

"But...!"

"Get _insi-_ "

He's cut off when the other man wraps his arms around his neck and yanks him away from his partner's barely conscious body. He squeezes hard, attempting to choke the life out of him. Blake twists his neck to the side, freeing his windpipe and gulping in as much air as he can before ramming his head back into the man's face. A nasty _crunch_ and the spray of hot blood on his hair confirms good aim on his part. He lets go and he stumbles forward, trying to get as much space as possible between them.

He has no idea where the guy got a crowbar, only that one swing from that thing could crack his skull open like an egg. The cramped arena of the lot doesn't give him much wiggle room -- there's no choice but to face it head on.

Blake drops to his knees as the man runs forward and swings in an arc. Both he and Finn barely dive out of the way as he swings again and hits the car's side window, shattering the glass. The man whirls around, eyes round with rage, and goes straight for him. Blake ducks the menacing whip of the bar just inches above his head, launching himself into the open space to tackle the man to the ground.

They wrestle viciously with the bar, desperately trying to tug it from each other's grasp. Blake risks losing his grip by grabbing a handful of gravel and snow and flinging it in the man's eyes. It has the intended effect -- he immediately claws at his face, leaving him wide open for attack. It's tempting to send the iron straight through his head and reduce him to little more than a bad Sunday memory. Instead he shoves the crowbar against his throat, kneeling against the man's chest with the full force of his weight.

"Maybe you and your friend there should call it quits." He pants, the blood in his hair dripping down to mingle with the mess coating the man's face.

"Fuck you, pretty boy." The tang of the man's sweat and the nervous flick of his eyes to the crowbar against his throat doesn't give much bite to his words.

"I've been called many things, but certainly not that." Blake eases the crowbar down, enough to make the guy gurgle and twist anxiously. "Maybe you should tell your friends about me, then."

"Come on, you're not gonna kill me over this." He wheezes. "We weren't gonna hurt you or the kid. We're just broke. That's all-"

He gags as Blake presses down.

"I'd have been a _bit_ more sympathetic if you didn't threaten my _kid_." He snarls in the man's face.

It's hard not to think of what Bane would do. What Batman would do. The former would've likely snapped the man's neck already, though not after talking him to near madness first. The latter would beat him to within an inch of his life and send the guy off with a warning. Maybe make an example out of him and his peer. With his head throbbing like a drum and Finn still shifting nervously from beside the car, it's hard not to see the wisdom in both.

"...Get the fuck out of here." He says as he pulls the crowbar away. "You come near St. Swithin's again and I'll break your goddamn neck."

The guy almost looks confused, even when he stands up and takes a few steps back. Another second and he scrambles to where his partner is starting to wake up from where he had been half-propped against the wall, shaking him by his shoulders. Blake watches him as he pulls the man's arm over his own and stumbles out of the lot, not turning away until they're well out of sight.

"Hey! What's going on?!"

He turns to see Reilly running through the alley, flanked by two of the older boys. Blake reaches up to wave, then hastily wipes his hands off on his jeans. Looks like another trip to the washer and dryer was in order.

"Just a little tussle." He says, wearily. "We're fine." They're looking around them, expressions relaying they feel it's anything but. Blake drops the crowbar and walks over to Finn, standing and staring morosely at the car's shattered window.

"Hey." He turns him around, looking him over for any damage. "You all right...?"

"I didn't help at all." Finn whispers, visibly shaking. "I didn't do shit."

"That's not true." He points to the knife still in his hand. "You made it harder for them to stab me." He frowns. "Even though I _did_ tell you to run. _"_

The boy avoids his gaze. Blake sighs.

"Look...I want to fight so you don't _have_ to." He wants to give him a hug, but the kid's uncomfortable stance signals he needs space. "I'm just glad it didn't get worse." He catches his gaze before pulling away. "That _you're_ okay."

Reilly and the boys are picking up the worst of the broken glass, calmed down now that it's clear they're no longer in any danger. Other than the car's ruined window it looks no worse for the wear -- he'll have to have another talk with Finn about budgeting, though for now all he wants is to get warm.

"I mean, there's at least one good thing that came out of all this." Blake says as he and Finn head back inside.

"What's that?"

"I am _definitely_ quitting smoking."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a...


	18. A Different Sort Of Welcome

It's been almost five days since the city hall went up in flames.

Coverage on the event is frustratingly limited. The media circus is aflame with news of the city hall bombing -- the police department remains characteristically vague from interview to interview, while station after station spins tales of sabotage, terrorism and anything catchy that could secure higher ratings. He seethes with each click of the dial and every glimpse of Foley's false concern. Swallows the anger and changes the channel when one of the boys walks into the room and tells him breakfast is ready.

It's almost impossible to avoid Bane's masked visage flashing from screen to screen, each blurred snapshot as menacing and surreal as a cryptid.

He borrows one of the boys' scissors and chops at his hair in the bathroom after breakfast, uneven ends be damned. He clips at the hair starting to cover his ears and works at the bangs that have been straggling in his eyes, ruffling his thick locks until they start to tumble over one another respectfully -- the patches are starting to grow back, he's glad to see, though it's one of the few elements that barely keeps his reflection from being a stranger. He studies the dark eyes gazing back at him. The freshly healed lip, the stubble along his chin.

He had walked into the living room earlier that morning to everyone clustering around something on the couch. Turns out the boys had chipped in weeks ago and bought him a new coat as an early birthday present, later stashing it when they thought he was missing, dead or both. It was a rather nice dark blue bomber jacket, the only sign of previous wear the somewhat frayed bottom. Blake had put on a show of preening and primping, earning a few good-natured groans in response. It was better than showing off how he really felt, he thinks as he pushes clumps of dark hair into the side trash -- a mottled and bruised shadow of who he used to be.

When he thinks about it, he's gone through more jackets than he has cigarette packs. His standard issue coat didn't last long in the sewer waters and he left the one Barsad gave him on the stunned workers. He's lacing on snow boots and thinking about how he'll do his best to hold onto their gift when he notices the strange lapse in activity outside the door. He walks out to the boys gathering quietly in the main room again with Reilly. "C'mon, don't tell me you got me a matching pair of-"

Blake halts when he sees the massive form standing on the front door steps.

"John Blake." Bane says, hands resting on his collar. "You look well."

The only thing that could be heard was the faint shuffle of shoes and a car alarm somewhere nearby. The man's biker helmet was still on. He had no weapons and no accomplices. Nothing but the sudden chill from the once open door. Blake slowly closes his mouth, not realizing it had been hanging open, and looks at Reilly. The man's brows were furrowed, looking to _him_ for an explanation. Movement at the corner of his eye sees Finn reaching into his pocket. Blake puts a hand over his, shaking his head.

' _It's fine_.' He mouths.

"...How did you find me?"

"Twenty-six...one absent." The man says with an apparent glance at his small audience. "You told me."

Of _course_ the guy would've put two and two together. He stands a little straighter -- he couldn't show unease in front of the kids. "...Let me rephrase that. Why did you find me?"

A tinny voice pipes up behind him. "Finn...? Blake?" The pitter-patter of little feet. Joel walks up to them, tiny dark head just reaching the shortest boy's shoulder. The detective winces. Naturally a bout of mild silence would wake the kid up. The place was normally noisier than a barrel of hyenas.

"Wow..." Joel breathes, pushing past his peers to run up to the masked man. One of the kids reaches out to grab him, shrinking back uncertainly when they near the giant stranger. Amir looks up and mouths at Blake. " _Can you get him...?_ "

Bane seems to notice none of this. He's looking down at the boy, expression masked by the tinted visor, hands still folded over his collar. Joel was a little too young to pick up on the nuance of the room. Probably thought Bane was a weird mailman or a particularly large friend.

"You're _enormous!_ "

He raises his hands to be picked up. Everyone seems to hold their breath. A few look at Blake, then Bane, then Blake again.

Joel's voice grows thin. "Please..." He didn't understand the hesitation. He stomps in place a little, trying to secure what he must be seeing as a lack of attention. Bane's breath was even, mechanical. Staring at the kid that barely came up to his knee.

" _Mmm_..." There it is, the telltale sniffle. His heart sinks -- the kid was sensitive to feeling unwanted. Just as he steps forward to assure him it's nothing personal, Bane reaches down and scoops the kid into his arms. Joel goes from near tears to squealing in delight, kicking his feet and clutching the man's head as he's placed on one shoulder. The boys and Reilly all slowly turn to Blake. The car alarm stops.

"We need to talk."

\--

The walls were paper-thin, so he took it as a minor blessing his spare room was on the uppermost floor. Joel had only just managed to be distracted by the other boys, though it was a temporary truce at best -- he'd already taken a huge shine to the masked man, now thoroughly convinced he was a new member of the family.

"Now Father Reilly's the shortest!" He hears him laugh as he makes his way up the stairs.

Bane stands by the door as Blake digs around for another chair, as still as a statue in the ramshackle little space. Finding him a place to sit was less a formality and more a way to buy himself a few seconds to think of just how to address the man that had held him hostage a few weeks ago and saved his life a few days ago. He was no doubt keen on what he said about Miranda. Perhaps wondering what else he heard or saw. They hadn't exactly had a lot of time to finesse details with a building collapsing on their heads.

Maybe he was interested in taking him back. Using the boys as proxy if he doesn't cooperate. It seems unlikely. Blake pulls out a metal folding chair wedged in the corner and yanks it open, gesturing Bane over with a flick of his head. The man is careful not to step on the scattered clothes or toys on the ground -- with such a cramped space, even his spare room was used as an occasional repository for knickknacks. With a grunt he sits down, leaning on his elbows and giving him a once-over.

Blake sits across from him on the bed, squaring himself up and doing the same. A high-collared leather jacket this time around, coupled with dark jeans and leather boots. Thick, black gloves and his helmet now resting at his feet. If there was one way Bane could blend in with the everyday crowd, it was passing himself off as a biker with particularly broad shoulders. A good look, though he wasn't about to say so.

"If you're here to threaten my _kids_..." Blake begins, keeping his voice low.

"No."

"Good. Then what do you want?"

"Clarification." He folds his hands in front of him. "How fares your health?"

Blake shrugs. "Just working off a fever."

Bane nods, as if satisfied. It's a sincere question and he can't help but feel a little warmed.

"What about you? You took a pretty big hit back there..." He offers, tentatively. Aside from a few well-healed cuts, the man doesn't look any worse for the wear. Indeed, he's amazed at how unscathed he looks after escaping a collapsing building _and_ a fall into Gotham's frozen waters. His memory's still fuzzy. Didn't he get hurt...?

"A minor hit." He responds. "Minor injuries."

"With all that armor you were wearing you should've sunk like a brick!"

"Your concern is misplaced."

"I'm just..." Does he say worried? Maybe it didn't make sense to be worried about someone who always seemed to have everything under control. "...trying to figure out if you're secretly Superman or something." He finishes weakly. Bane's eyes don't crinkle, but there's a glint of amusement in their dark depths.

"I assure you, I am naught more than flesh and blood." His expression flickers, hard to read. "You would do well to consider your own limits."

Flashes of Bane curling over him and shielding him from chunks of falling sheetrock blink in his mind. He tugs at his hair anxiously. He wants to thank him. He's just not sure how to go about doing it, considering he still can't quite figure out if he's an enemy or not. Should he even broach the strange relationship they share at this point or does he quietly thank his stars he doesn't have a square-shaped hole in his head?

"What happened at the courthouse?" Bane asks, jerking him out of his thoughts. Blake takes in a deep breath -- here they go.

"They...my department...had planned on blowing it up for a while." He starts. "Supposedly it was meant to be a harmless scare tactic, but that's clearly not what panned out. I went to warn everyone inside, best I could still being part of the force, anyway." He shakes his head. "I've been trying to figure out what's going on in the meantime, but I'm still a little out of the loop."

"A significant portion left before the explosions went off." Bane says. "Rumors abound that a still unidentified third-party may have tipped off the residents inside. This is, of course, contained to a mere rumor."

His heart lurches hopefully. "What about the rest?"

"Some suffered grievous injuries. A few were arrested, though how many remains to be seen. No casualties, as far as I know." A long, slow breath. "The building is gone, but the people endure."

He leans back against the wall. "...Thank _god_."

Bane's eyes flick up and down, studying him again. If he's relieved he doesn't show it. Then...

"Miranda visited you."

Blake stiffens. That was _his_ line. "She _attacked_ me."

His gaze is unblinking. "Who have you told about this?"

"...Just one."

"Good."

The implication is enough. He was here to make sure he didn't talk. While the man looks as calm as ever, Blake keeps himself on edge -- neither of them are out of hot water yet.

"That could change, though." He says. Maybe it's a little foolish to taunt him with the information when he's just three feet away from throttling him. "So you should give me a good reason not to let everyone know your daughter wants to lay the whole city six feet under."

Bane nods slowly. "So you know."

"What can I say, I'm good at putting two and two together." He replies with a shrug. "She's not your meal ticket. You just raised a damn terrorist."

"Mind your _tongue_."

There it was. That dark energy that seemed to rise from nowhere, a force that could make any space suddenly feel too small and too close.

"Why the hell should I?"

"Because you gain little by antagonizing me, John Blake." His fingers twitch once, twice. Already at the end of his rope. The man's patience always seemed to dry up whenever she was the subject at hand. He still hadn't forgotten the man backhanding him when he asked if he was sleeping with her for power.

"You want to get mad at someone? Look in the damn mirror." He hisses back. "You're a smart guy. I'm surprised you didn't figure this out sooner."

"It is not new knowledge."

He knows he's not lying. Somehow that makes it worse. "Then why the hell didn't you _do_ something about it?"

"Would you give up so readily on your children?"

" _My_ kids don't want to blow up the city."

"Precisely." Blake pauses. The man's voice is low, hardly more than a rasp. "What would _you_ do if she were yours?"

He opens his mouth to speak, then slowly shuts it. Not an easy question.

"Light is dismaying, but it casts large shadows." He says. "I have seen the goodness in her."

Doubt and denial. Damn if it didn't have its claws in everyone. "Then maybe you need to hear what I did." He pulls out his phone, flipping open the dark video and turning up the volume with a slide of his thumb. The rustle of his pocket filters over the audio here and there, but her voice is just as crisp and malicious as when he first heard it.

' _Justice is a sweet song...for the gullible_.'

' _He is a visionary, but one who often seeks out hope in the wrong places_.'

_'I suppose he'll find out soon enough.'_

Neither of them budge an inch as the recording plays. Bane's expression is haunting, staring past him at seemingly nothing.

His own voice, shaky with panic. The scraping of feet, a sharp _thud_. It's only when Miranda cries out in pain does Bane glance his way, a terrifying look that makes his hair stand on end. Then the clip ends and the room is silent again, save for the occasional muffled yells of the boys roughhousing below. How interesting that this, of all things, was the closest he could get to payback. He wasn't enjoying it as much as he thought he would.

"I'll concede that it's not easy to put family away. You still brought her here." Blake says as he pockets his phone. "If anything happens it's partially on you."

Bane's eyes are on him, but they still waver as if looking at something else entirely. They focus when he speaks again.

"Why a bomb? Why Gotham?" He pauses as it hits him. "...Why didn't your own daughter tell _you?_ "

He expects the man to start waxing philosophy about the bomb being a metaphor. Maybe give him some more denial. Not... "A weapon of the people to strike fear into the hearts of their oppressors, something that cannot be tamed, reconciled with or slowed once unleashed. Gotham may very well see its future surrendered to the fire's rise, but only if it is a vision the people share in tandem."

Even sitting on a cheap chair in a cramped room he's a little staggered by the man's sheer presence. His brutal and silky words.

"Your city has long since been a victim of its own neverending cycle of circumstance. There is little you do not already know." He takes in another long, wheezing breath. "A beaten populace, deprived of power and agency, will be gifted a four hundred ton megaton bomb once I am through. So long as you remain a resident, so too will it be yours."

"And Miranda was ready to use it."

He doesn't speak for a few long moments. Then...

"...Talia." He corrects softly. "Talia al Ghul."

His heart aches -- that somber note in the man's eyes he originally found so startling makes more sense now. A public menace, freedom fighter _and_ worried father.

"Her desires are clouded to me. I still doubt the veracity of her claim, one that could have easily been made in the heat of the moment or through irrational spite. Irregardless, your warning is heeded."

Blake sighs and rubs his temples, trying to take it all in when the man suddenly stands and scoops up his helmet in one fluid motion. Shit. He can't be going already. Not yet. Blake stands up, even as he's unsure how exactly he'd stop the man from leaving.

"Wait, stop." He says, wincing at the headrush. "We're not done, I have more ques-"

"Thank you, John Blake." He says, infuriatingly polite. "You have been most helpful."

" _Helpful?_ " Now his patience snaps. He rushes between him and the door, placing a hand on his chest. "Don't fucking patronize me. This is my city. My _home_. I'm not just going to sit by and let anything happen to it while I'm still breathing. Why don't you take a goddamn step back and listen to someone who knows far more about Gotham than...you do..."

He leans forward a little, catching his breath -- he's starting to get lightheaded again.

"That...can't be it."

Bane's chest rises and falls slowly beneath his hand.

"What do you want _it_ to be?"

' _I think I want a lot of things from you, Bane_.' He thinks as the man gazes down at him, serene and intense all at once. ' _And it sort of freaks me out_.'

"You said you want to save Gotham, right?"

He gestures to the room. The tossed clothes, the overflowing boxes, the bike with a missing wheel in the corner.

"This is Gotham."

To his surprise Bane's gaze follows the sweep of his hand, as if seeing the room for the first time.

"When you outed Gordon you talked about the people. You're always talking about them. ...Us." The still-fresh hurt rises when he says his name -- he pushes it down. "I'm starting to wonder if an idol is what the people need right now, considering one's down and out and the other looks more like a villain."

"What are you trying to say?"

"That...I _want_ to trust you." He almost has to grit the words out. Bane tilts his head in consideration.

"I will send my men to secure the necessary elements while I assess the situation. You may be right and you may be wrong yet, detective. In the meantime..." He rests a hand on his shoulder. "I will contain her, so do not attempt to seek her out."

"Okay? What if she seeks _me_ out?"

"Were I not a man of my word you both would then fight and I would have no choice but to hurt you quite badly." He raises his eyebrows. "Which would not be ideal for either of us."

"No kidding. Not after you went through the trouble of saving me."

He rubs his head and turns to the door.

"I, uh, didn't thank you yet..."

He's underestimated how woozy he is. One step and the ground wobbles beneath him, making him stumble and grapple at anything within reach as not to hit the floor. Bane catches him at the last second, pulling him back up. Blake doesn't notice bumping against his chest, too busy rubbing his eyes and trying to blink away the gray fuzz chewing at the edges of his vision. Then the man's thick arms shift around his waist.

"...Careful." Bane murmurs.

His throat doesn't seem to work as it should. He turns around in his grip, looking at the mask, then his eyes. Even this close he can't tell if they're brown or gray. They're beautiful.

"Haven't gotten anywhere doing that." He manages to say, breathlessly.

A soft chuckle.

"So it seems."

He should pull away. By all rights neither of them should even be in this _room_ , much less so close he can smell the outside on him -- snow and exhaust and a familiar, earthy scent his tired mind can't place. Yet, somehow, this is exactly where he wants to be, with Bane's eyes searching him in a way that makes him want to do something incredibly stupid.

"You didn't answer one question, Bane."

"Hm?"

"Why did you choose Gotham?"

The man pulls back to rest his hands on his sides.

"...A long answer."

Blake's heart pounds in his chest. This is...

"Trust me...I've got time."

He can't kiss him. Not with the mask. With Bane everything is roundabout and a little strange -- a person doesn't adapt, he's learned, so much as improvise. So instead he leans up and presses his lips between his jaw and jacket collar. The man's entire body stiffens and for a second Blake's convinced he's just crossed a line for good.

Then Bane lets out a low, husky sigh.

He's almost dizzy with relief, leaning up to better mouth at his neck and delighting at the taste of sweat and musk that meets his tongue. Bane's hands slide down from his sides to his hips, pulling him flush against his chest. Lust kills any leftover hesitation and Blake bites, hard -- he can feel Bane's responding growl through his skin, a reverberation that travels through his entire body. The man doesn't stop him when he pops open a button and moves to his collarbone, nor when he presses closer to him.

Even with his thick, clingy outfit he marvels at the solid muscle that meets his hands. The heady scent of leather filling his nose and making him ache all over. Probably more thrilling is how fascinated Bane seems with _him_. Even patiently enjoying his ministrations his hands are roaming along his back, his hips, his ass, the front of his mask gliding against the side of his neck as if wanting to taste him. He's about to ask him to take it off and shove his tongue in his mouth before the man suddenly grabs him by his jacket collar and pushes him against the far wall.

' _Okay. We're doing this_.' He thinks vaguely. The slide of his jacket zipper cuts through the room, there's a brief pause, and before he knows it Bane is back to exploring him greedily. Blake's skin jumps when he moves beneath the jacket and shirt both, trying to reason with these powerful, calloused hands as capable of snapping a neck as stitching up a wound. It's not long before one wanders between his legs.

Day after day of illness and stress and exhaustion has him almost manic for human touch. He wants to undress him, pull him into bed, desperate for the clash of hot, bare skin and tangle of limbs. Bane lets out a throaty chuckle when he tugs at his jacket, pushes down his hands when he attempts to fumble with his belt.

"Would that I _could..._ " He rasps as he slides his hands up his legs and squeezes his ass hungrily. Even in his lust he sounded so damn _formal_. Somehow the sexiest detail in a sea full of them.

"Hell, I wouldn't stop you." Blake moans, only to feel his thoughts short-circuit as the man tugs his hips to his and grinds. Even through his pants the man is _huge_ , the outline of his cock stretching the leather just enough to make it clear exactly how long he is. Shit, would he even be able to suck the guy off? He was sorely out of practice and he wasn't exactly in the mood to disappoint.

Bane answers this by pulling off one of his gloves, meticulous even when rutting him up against a wall, and yanks at his pants with two swift movements. Pulling him out. For a moment he thinks the man is going to get rough, is not even sure he'd mind if the guy treated him with the delicacy of a yoga mat, but any and all concern melts away when he curls careful fingers around his stiff cock and slowly, agonizingly, drags his grip _up_.

"Oh, _fuck_."

His legs go weak. He has to hook an arm around Bane's wide shoulders to keep his balance, pushing his forehead into his collar as he rocks desperately up into his hand. The _click_ of a belt and the man is sliding his cock against his own. The man's breath is ragged in his ear, distorted by the tangle of metal and wire, as eerie as it is arousing.

Olive skin has darkened where he kept biting, but he's long since realized the man doesn't interact with pain the way a normal human being should. A smaller, animalistic part of him wants to gnaw until the mark never fades -- a reminder that, out of all the people he could have, Bane wants _him_. Fuck, the thought alone could have him coming prematurely.

His hand is more slick than rough now, grip gliding smoothly from base to tip. Blake reaches down to return the favor, only to have his hand pushed away again.

"Jerk." Blake manages between pants. "I can't even tou- _ah_." Bane rolls a thumb between the base of his cock and his balls, making his back arch like a bow.

"I have wanted to do this for quite some time." He murmurs, voice downright _ragged_ in his ear. "Let me savor you."

Shit, that does it. Blake is _trying_ not to bite his cut lip, but he has no other way to stop the moans bubbling up through him. He starts digging his nails into the man's leather jacket, cutting off groan after _groan_ as heat builds deliciously in the pit of his stomach. Surrendering doesn't feel so bad, he realizes distantly, not when it's pure fucking fire licking its way up and slowly driving him crazy. He bites Bane's neck again to muffle his cry when he comes, probably _way_ too hard, but he can't help it, he's lurching forward and jerking through the orgasm like it'll be his last.

Through the buzzing in his ears and the rubbery feeling in his legs he registers how Bane's breathing is coming in heaving pants now, where he'd only sounded winded before. Blake stares in wonder as he pulls his hand away and down to jerk himself off. In-between staring at the head of his cock rising and disappearing in his hand (leaking like milk over his fingers to drip onto the floor, what must he _taste_ like-) and glimpses of his mask he catches the man's hooded gaze. As brief as a spark.

He knows, somehow, that simple motion is what tips Bane over the edge.

Then he's pressing him against the wall, as heavy as a fucking truck, and shoving up his shirt to come on his bare stomach, with a hoarse groan that he's _sure_ goes straight through the floorboards.

They lean on one another against the wall in a shared daze. Like they belong to someone else his hands move up and start to aimlessly wander along the man's hard stomach and broad chest. Slow and wondering. Blake runs a lazy tongue along the sweat beading on Bane's thick neck, the high of his orgasm _just_ keeping the nervousness concerning whatever the _hell_ just happened at bay. Then his release starts to dribble down and soak warmly into his jeans, jolting him to attention.

"Ah, damn it..." He sighs when his lip stings -- he's opened it again. Holding his loose jeans in place with one hand he leans over and grabs one of his spare shirts off the top drawer, using it to wipe them both off. Only now can he finally touch the man, finally feel how damn _thick_ (and still stiff) he is. Bane's pants ring strangely through the front of his mask, the only other sign to his exertion the faint flush to his skin.

"So...you _do_ think I'm cute." Blake chuckles as he dabs at the smears he left on the man's jacket, then balls the shirt up and tosses it in the basket in the corner of the room.

"Mostly insolent." Bane responds, voice still a little scratchy, leaning off the wall to hook his belt back into place. "Impulsive. Arrogant. Blunt..."

Blake licks at his bottom lip and is met with a coppery taste, warm and tingling and feeling a little smug, despite himself. Bane's eyes are still dark with lust as he slowly buttons up his coat all the way to the collar. Somehow scary, somehow incredible. Once he's finished he reaches over and moves a slow, indulgent thumb along his mouth, pushing away the blood welling to the surface. For a second it looks like he's about to say something else. Then he moves away, quick as anything, pulling on his other glove and reaching for his helmet.

Blake decides to speak before he loses his nerve.

"...Bane."

He glances over his shoulder at him, clicking on the helmet strap. He swallows back some of the leftover throatiness before continuing.

"Thank you for saving my life." He says, softly. "If you hadn't I never would've seen them again."

"On the contrary." Bane replies. He's looking elsewhere now. Blake follows his gaze -- he's observing Amir's gift art on the wall.

"What...?"

"Thank you."

Bane pats Joel on the head before walking out the door and to a motorbike on the curb, as ordinary as any person in Gotham. With Reilly watching him anxiously from the kitchen and the boys already gossiping to each other in hushed tones, he realizes that ordinary is a feeling he's long since taken for granted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...double-feature!


	19. Somewhere Only We Know

It's a rage that couldn't have been beaten down.

A rage that challenged his control.

Bane was a logical man. Emotions were, at best, a guideline. Something to be fervently trained like the mind and body. Tethered by reality and tempered by distance, they were punished if they took even a small step outside their bounds.

Could have exaggerated. Could have lied. Could have told the truth. The man despises these could haves and should haves. He's unfamiliar with vague sentiments and wants nothing more than to take them by the throat and throttle the life out of them every time they rear their heads -- heedless and spectral they gnaw at the corners of his mind, ever threatening to shred his carefully built foundation and drive him mad. Only the white-hot burn of his muscles and the heaving effort of his lungs keep them at bay today.

He needs these physical and mental distractions more than ever. Overseeing morning drills with his men had been a useful one. Analyzing the tangle of Gotham neighborhoods for his next appearance slightly more so. The only one he finds himself wanting is Blake.

To fight, perhaps. See firsthand just how his recent experiences have shaped him for better or for worse. A deeper desire stirs beneath the surface and makes a mockery of the thought, a knot of insistent heat in his stomach.

He closes his eyes as he stretches, urging the temperamental and worried nerves along his spine to relax. The masked man envisions things clearly in the dark. It's a skill he's honed to a malicious edge over the course of his life, able to expand and contract possibilities before him as vividly as a painting. His will the composition and violence the brush, no detail was left unturned on Gotham's broad canvas -- a tool forever perfect for subtle sabotage or an immediate threat both. It's not a battle strategy he's envisioning now. Not even bat-shaped silhouettes creep their way unwelcome into his mind.

Dark brown eyes curving into half-moons in the shadow of some private enclave they've temporarily made their own. The man's chest rising and falling in a staccato rhythm. Arresting images as contradictory as their subject matter. Frustrating him. Motivating him.

He can so easily see Blake being consumed by silence or rattling off quips as he explores his chest, his stomach, his sides. Twisting beneath him when he reaches lower, suddenly a little coy. The feel of his hot mouth roaming along his neck. The sharp bend of his back when he's inside him. It's a patchwork fantasy stitched together from their hasty coupling at St. Swithin's, woefully threadbare. It was a strange time when he was distracted from his distractions, he thinks irritably as Salim adds an additional weight to the barbell.

He lifts and lowers repetitively, his harsh breath the only sound that could be heard in the cold, dim chamber.

"Rest does you as much good as training."

Bane narrows his eyes and continues to lift as Barsad walks in -- he was becoming more and more a mother hen these past weeks. A part of him wonders if Talia put him up to it.

The man walks over to replace Salim as his spotter, bidding the younger mercenary instead remain outside the door and ensure they aren't interrupted. The walls were thick, unlikely to invite any eavesdropping -- as lovely as the thought of being able to intrinsically trust each and every individual under his command was, they both now knew the young man was willing to disobey at the whim of his own moral compass. It was not the first time Bane had been defied -- it was nearly impossible to ensure consistent behavior among hundreds of individuals -- but this was a rare instance where it worked in his favor.

 _Too_ well.

Circumventing punishment was never an option for disobeying. Neither was he able to ignore the direct and indirect hand the young man played in the past week. Death was not a fitting response to what he had done, nor were the League's traditional methods of correcting disobedience in light of the circumstances. Back and forth over the past few days he had struggled with the proper reprimand, his displeasure clear enough to make even Barsad give him a wide berth.

_A sparring session to establish dominance. A dance as old as time, perfect for packs of wolves and the League Of Shadows both. The young man hardly holds up to the onslaught, though his effort is clear, caving under his brutal blows in a matter of minutes._

_"Your stance is better than it used to be. You are not quick enough, however. Your fast eye has not translated to fast feet."_

_His reprimand is brief. The young man would admonish himself harder than he ever would._

_"Why did you set him free?"_

_Salim doesn't wipe the blood from his mouth or look away. Bane demanded honesty from his men at all times -- an averted gaze could be just as much an admission of guilt as a sign of respect, with all their mingling cultures, so he cuts to the chase. Stares him down to pull the truth forward whether it wants to reveal itself or not._

_"Because...he was like a friend to us."_

_He doesn't elaborate further. Bane studies him in the faint light._

_'You, too.', his eyes say._

Salim sets down the rag he had been holding and accepts this new task quietly, walking out of the door and shutting it behind him. Barsad slips off his coat and hangs it by his equipment, settling into the familiar rhythm without a hitch. He updates him on the status of his men as well as any news that may have slipped past his notice -- Bane listens closely, eager for another distraction. Unfortunately, there isn't much he doesn't already know.

Their creature has remained a tumultuous prisoner, enough to make Blake look well-behaved by comparison. It growls through any gesture to communicate when it's not attempting to chew through the bars and escape -- while Barsad had attempted to interrogate it one day, according to him the most he got were some rather impressive death glares and sulking silence. Rubio had recommended they use it as a weapon, one that would have bore weight if not for the intelligence in those bitter green eyes. Between the first encounter in the storm drains and his attempt to pull meaning out of their interactions, it was clear it was no mere animal to be trifled with. It made even less progress when Bane visited its cell one day, shrinking back as far as its chains would allow and baring its teeth like a scared dog.

"Commissioner Gordon is still facing backlash. Although his superiors seem keen on forgiving him, too many are demanding accountability after you read his speech." He holds the barbell steady as Bane catches his breath, then pulls away once he continues. "It looks like they'll tear themselves apart from the inside before we can even lay another hand on them."

"The downside of a rare honest man, I should think." Bane pants.

"Perhaps Talia could give him a master class in deceit." Barsad says idly. Bane feels that same uncomfortable twist in his chest at her name.

"Talia will visit Metropolis tomorrow, meeting with scientists hailing from around the world." He responds, finally giving in to the fire blistering through his arms and chest and pausing for a breather. "She is yet to lack for opportunities."

"Does she still want to find a replacement for Pavel?"

"He and the reactor will be gone once she returns."

"...I see."

His word was final. It doesn't push away the man's concern, however, and the slight furrow to his brow remains steady throughout the session. Bane isn't interested in detailing exactly why he was suddenly and quietly shutting out Ra's Al Ghul's heir from their eight year plan -- betrayal was still a fresh hole in his chest. Barsad's trust, however troubled, was appreciated.

It did, after all, go both ways.

Bane adjusts the wires along his mask, tempering the amount of analgesic flowing through its inner cords -- he puffs out air methodically as he continues to lift, making up for the lowered drug with focused bursts of energy.

"How is your back?" Barsad eventually asks.

"Manageable."

"Your mask?"

"Functioning."

There's hesitance in the man's voice. Bane finally sets down the weight and sits up panting, pushing sweat out of his eyes and fixing the man with a hard stare. "Speak your mind or hold your tongue."

Even estranged from his wife and children for multiple years his tendency toward acting the part of a family man peeked through. Part of being a leader was cultivating an air of invulnerability, however fabricated and fantastical -- genuine concern or fear on his behalf risked cracking that veneer, a sentiment that could spread to others and something that couldn't be easily replaced once broken. Maintaining the balance between community and idolatry was never an easy dance. Neither was that of leader and follower. As if summoned Blake's sardonic smile flickers in the corner of his mind, permanently disrespectful.

Perhaps he simply did not want to admit to a lack of control.

"I would not bother you with these concerns if I felt there was no reason." Barsad says. "I'll stop if that's what you wish."

"You fret too much." He grunts after a moment. Barsad takes this invitation to continue with a slight incline to his head.

"The men have noticed you have been off lately." He keeps his gaze casually averted as he puts away the weights, sensing he's done. "They whisper concerns to one another when they believe me out of earshot. One common fear caught my attention."

"What are these suppositions I should know?" He asks as he mops sweat from his chest.

"That Bruce Wayne may have been spotted outside Gotham."

Bane pauses.

"Doubtful."

"There is always a possibility."

"From Gotham's beloved trust fund child?"

"It was worth mentioning-"

"Then I will see it with my own _eyes_ rather than the bored musings of a stressed collective." It is tempting to dip into irritation, however minute, and use his position to silence the matter further. It's through contemplating this moment of weakness he realizes the man may have had an earlier point. Barsad is fitting the small tube onto his water.

"This will be looked into." He says, eventually. "For now I am trusting you with something more immediate." The man seems to relax a little at this. He hands him the bottle, which Bane takes a deep drink of -- it's carefully designed to fit through his mask, affecting neither the medication or speaker that resides in the grill.

"It will be done."

"...I know."

Trust. Perhaps the most finicky weapon of all. Barsad puts his coat back on and pulls out his phone.

"You fight for everyone's happiness." He says, softly. "For Talia's. Remember there are many who want the same for you."

Bane adjusts the wires on his mask again, correcting their flow back to their default. Natural endorphins and analgesic make an addicting mixture, one that attempts valiantly to lift his mood.

"Ever mouthy."

Barsad puts on a rare smile.

"Someone must keep you in check."

\--

Cream, white and gold glitters playfully in Talia's penthouse suite. Light catches and reflects off of what seems like every surface, creating an environment of permanent decadence that makes his head ache. He tries to keep his expression polite as he waits beside the door and watches her prepare for her trip.

She turns in the mirror, observing the tumble of her hair and adjusting the scarf tucked into her pastel winter coat. Merle boots brush just beneath her knees, the heels tall and impractical, lifting her up to come up to his chin. A thick layer of foundation blends her skin together, covering the small cut on her nose and cheek.

"Excessive...but excess is what they know." She turns around with a small frown. "How do I look?"

She had always been beautiful to him, even coated in the panache of high society. Bane rises from where sits, walking over to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear and out of the way of the delicate necklace he clips around her neck. He can almost see the ragged, dirty little girl beyond the glamour. The fire she keeps mitigated behind feigned submission.

"Are you okay, Bane...?" She asks as he adjusts her collar and ensures her hair isn't snagged. "Sometimes your silence worries me."

"The absence of sound is not silence." He corrects gently. "You know this."

Her blue eyes remain stony with disbelief. He knows what he has to say to her. It simply would have to wait. He was a patient man. He had to be. He had to...

_"Let him go. He's done enough!"_

_Her shrill voice cuts through the clamor like a knife. He takes the spare moment to stagger to his knees, still suspended halfway upright by the chains, and take in a few unchallenged breaths. Sweat stings his eyes. The surrounding chants start to fill his ears again, monotonous and droning, encouraging him ever on. He has never more wanted to lay down and let the darkness overtake him for good._

_"The League never settles for less." Ra's calls from above, invisible in the stone archway's shadows. "Continue."_

_The jackals were smart enough to sense when they were given permission. They veer closer, sniffing and whuffing to one another in their language. Bane slowly rises to his feet as they attempt to make good on their scavenging._

_" **Father!** "_

A hand on his cheek pulls him back into reality.

"Bane." She whispers as she runs her fingers along the straps of his mask. She was familiar with the ins and outs of the past. How it could take hold at a moment's notice. "I'm here."

"Of course." He smiles, just for her, even as the memory crawls up his skin. "You always are."

She returns his smile, but it's fleeting.

"...You don't have to carry this weight all by yourself." He can see her attempting to rule out possibilities as she studies him. "Maybe you should take time off. Have Barsad take over for you. Gotham will still be corrupt a week from now, after all. He's proven himself more than capable."

"Yes...he has." He says, much to her surprise. "Perhaps I will take your advice."

"You mean it?" She asks with wide eyes.

"It _has_ been a while since I cooked for the men. It could be a good opportunity to reconnect."

"Since you have cooked for _me_." She adds, teasingly, though there's actual joy in her smile now. "I look forward to it."

She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him close. He holds her, closing his eyes and running a slow, somber hand through her hair.

"...And who will take care of John Blake?" She murmurs against his skin.

It's a deceptively casual question, one that didn't quite hide the leftover rage. Circumstances had deprived him of witnessing what must have been a terrible wrath after she confronted Blake days ago -- Barsad had been the one to attend to her in his absence. It was difficult for him to sort the mingled pride and fury inside him at Blake's swift escape and the injuries he left on her. So he does the one thing he never thought he'd do to her: he lies.

"In due time." He pulls back, observing her outfit once more in the bright light. "For now we have more important elements to focus on than a rogue individual." Talia frowns in thought.

"Well..." She says lightly. "...if anyone has experience disposing of rogue individuals, it would be you."

Her phone rings, turning her attention to her papers. She gathers them quickly, sliding them into a folder and pushing it into her purse. "I would exercise caution, Bane, when you _do_ go after him..."

He watches her as she walks through the door and heads down the stairs.

"He has a few tricks up his sleeve."

\--

Visiting a store chain isn't an option, but they had long since made acquaintance with smaller farmers on the outer fringes of the city. He only takes what he needs as he walks through the stands and selects a little bit of everything, even as they're eager to give away their wares -- an elderly farmer reaches out and takes his hand gratefully when he browses their display, a gesture he returns despite Barsad's frown. Nobody here would reveal that Bane was out shopping for groceries. Not when they shared the same cause.

St. Swithin's is an old building, possessing an age he can sense even beyond its peeling paint and refurbished windows. Collective history was an interest he gained over the years, perhaps cultivated by the significant portion of life spent in isolation. Even observing it he doesn't miss the elderly man that makes his way out of the front gate before he's even parked his motorcycle.

Father Reilly gives him the man's address with little prodding, though he can tell he's still wary of him. The orphanage seems to possess no other adults around, with the older children filling in the role of mentor or protector as best they can around their younger peers. A soft _tap-tap_ turns his gaze from their stilted conversation -- Joel is quivering with excitement in the window, patting the glass with a tiny hand to get his attention. He's eager to help bring in the produce Bane brought as a well-wishing gift, squeaking about recipes as he peers inside each bag in turn and names the different vegetables.

While the thick lines around his mouth remain firm, Father Reilly's tone betrays a hint of relief.

"It's been pretty tight lately since our investors went belly up. Wayne vanishing and his support with him, then our donations following suit..." He doesn't finish the sentence, glancing sideways at the boys starting to mill around them. "...was beginning to think we were cursed after a while. Just seems like anything can go wrong at any moment. Anyway, your donation is much appreciated, uh..." He frowns. "I didn't catch your name, sir."

Bane watches as Joel attempts to pick up a heavy bag only to set it down again with a frustrated _huff_.

"Behnam."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Behnam." It's odd to hear his old title through a Western accent. "So, you're a...friend? Colleague?" There's doubt in his voice. Perhaps a touch of discomfort. It's likely he caught a hint of their activity above last he visited. That or he was simply haggard and overworked, as desperate to obtain an acquaintanceship as denounce someone a threat out of necessity.

"Yes."

The St. Swithin's boys are eyeing him curiously as they move up and down the stairs. One with dark, neatly trimmed hair studies him so intently he doesn't see two of his peers attempting to navigate the slippery ground with their arms full, nearly bowling him over in the process when they slip predictably. Another, taller boy snickers from the doorway, only to suddenly sober when Reilly barks at him to help.

"Can you tell Blake to come over and live with us?" Joel asks as he tries to walk up the steps and hesitates, attempting to look around the last overflowing bag to gauge his footing. "You can live with us too."

They see him off, waving until he is well out of sight and back on the open road. Bane wonders how he would broach such a topic when he parks again, making his way through the well-tended grounds of the apartment complex only a handful of blocks away. He nods politely to a pair of neighbors sitting on the next door porch before knocking at his destination, the last bag held steady in one arm.

"Oh." Blake says when he opens the door. "Hello."

An acoustic song plays from somewhere inside. He glances over his shoulder much like he did at the orphanage. His suspicion is pragmatic, though a strange hint of disappointment runs through him -- perhaps it was too early to hope for a different reaction. The man waves him in, attempting to push boxes out of sight as he makes his way to the kitchen. It's a humble abode, small and somewhat cramped due to the furniture still wrapped or boxed throughout the corners.

"Wasn't easy finding another place." He says as he picks up a potted plant from atop a stack of boxes. "Most landlords are too spooked to accept new tenants. I can't remember the last time I actually had to use more than two references." The man's hair is more neatly arranged now, still longer than it was when they first met. His clean-shaven face and long-sleeved gray shirt make him look much different than usual -- almost soft. "Sorry about the boxes."

"A strange thing to apologize for." Bane says as pulls off his helmet and hands him the bag. Blake peers inside and squints.

"...Vegetables?"

"You're still recovering."

Blake takes it and rummages inside. "How did you even get these? Most stores are locked down..."

"Your concerns should be focused on removing any traces of weakness left in you by recent events and subpar administration." He glances at the open pantry doors stuffed near to bursting with instant noodles and bread. "...and subpar food."

"What can I say, it's cheap." He says as he pulls out an eggplant, admiring its sheen in the light.

Bane looks around him. Even in the disorder there were touches that could only be from Blake. The pragmatic organization of boxes along the side walls contrasting with impulsive piles of clothes and bags sloppily tossed. The fluffy plant he's now carefully watering with a small can. A photo propped on the kitchen counter halts his roaming gaze -- a smiling boy with a gap in his teeth holds up a small, white fish in front of a harbor. He's flanked by two adults with thick scarves almost covering their mouths, their glittering eyes instead showing off their good humor.

A soft _crunch_. Bane turns to find him eating the eggplant raw.

"...My parents." He gestures with it -- the bitter taste doesn't seem to bother him. "First time fishing."

He doesn't need to ask to know they've passed. Growing up around death had long since acquainted him with these old wounds, though he can tell by the tone of his voice Blake's had yet to heal. The detective leans against the kitchen counter and continues to eat quietly, not looking at him. The air is still a touch terse. No doubt his sudden appearance isn't sitting entirely well.

"Thanks." He says after a moment.

"Of course."

"You, uh...want a cup of coffee?"

Bane gives him a rueful look. Blake almost smiles.

"Right. Tea."

He waves a polite hand and chooses instead to lean in the doorway. "Your orphanage seems to be doing well."

The man pauses in mid-bite.

"Yeah, they're...good." He bobs his leg idly. "...Really good, actually. I thought all the stuff going on would scare them, but they're handling it pretty well. Then again, they deal with enough shit during the week. Break-ins, vandalizing, school security. It's just another Thursday."

Like a dam he's talking now -- about the recent animal shelter built a block away from St. Swithin's and the joy it brings the boys, the young ones in particular who crave a sense of normalcy. They plan on saving up to adopt one of the dogs, he says, a protector as well as someone for them to play with when the older boys were out at school or working. He's smiling again, that rare warmth he's found himself wanting to witness more and more. Like a passing star he attempts to engrave this glimpse in memory, though Blake takes his silence for something else.

"This is probably boring you."

"Not at all."

Blake chews on his lip and watches him. For a moment it seems he's finished talking. Then... "Just don't want the dog to get sick or lost or something. They've already lost a lot." He sighs. "I'd hate to add to that."

"Your funds are insufficient." It wasn't quite a question. Blake looks ashamed.

"Not as much as I'd like. Still paying off the downstairs renovations and the rest of Finn's bond." He responds. "Joel might need another round of counseling, too. He's doing really well and I don't want to halt his progress now, of all times."

He recalls the wide-eyed wonder the boy had shown not an hour ago. "Joel seems a brave boy."

The detective nods. "He's...well, yes and no. He's afraid of a lot of things, but that's because he's seen more than a kid his age should've."

"...Yes." Bane imagines Talia. How she hadn't even the faint luxury of growing up around other children her age. "I can imagine."

Blake studies him, curiosity flickering in his eyes. Whatever his question is, he doesn't ask it.

"He, uh, asked about you."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Asked how you got so big." His eyes curve mischievously as he takes another bite. "I told him it was all the hot air."

Bane chuckles. "That doesn't explain why I tower over you."

Blake's eyes narrow. "All right, smartass. Let's get this over with."

"Hm?"

"Come on. You didn't just come here to chat me up." Suspicion again. More curiosity. Something else more guarded, carefully tucked behind that mask and well out of his reach. "If you're wondering about the other day..."

He hesitates. Indeed, Bane wants nothing more than to pick up where they left off. He's made no attempt to hide that desire, still relishing in the pleasant cut of the man's shirt. Now that he's closer he can see the faint sheen glinting on his skin as well as the cling of his dark hair along the side of his neck, suggesting a recent shower. Blake's throat bobs slowly from the scrutinization. A trait he would have found unnecessary otherwise became strangely endearing all of a sudden -- it wasn't often the man was tongue-tied.

"Things are, um, pretty weird right now. I'm not...I'm not harboring any bright ideas about-"

"I came to recruit you."

"I...what?"

"To the League Of Shadows."

He's unbalanced. He chews slowly, glancing to the bag on the countertop then back to him. "...you're bribing me with kale?" Bane raises his eyebrows. The man had a tendency to crack wise when he was nervous or angry. Blake's eyes widen a little when he realizes he's serious. "Oh. Well, uh. I appreciate the offer..." He finishes the eggplant, tossing the stem into the sink. "...but I don't exactly know what that entails."

"A repository of battle tactics, martial arts and medical practices older than all of us combined, a veritable wealth of knowledge at your merest whim." He answers smoothly. "An opportunity to be on the right side of history and an overall far better proposition than the one you curry now."

Blake frowns curiously -- he can tell his interest is piqued. "Now...? Oh. No, I quit." He sighs. "Well. Am quitting. I still have to go grab my shit from the office..." He's become rather adept at reading his expressions through the mask, he thinks, because he suddenly frowns and points an accusatory finger at him. "Yeah, yeah, yuck it up. I've been thinking of quitting for a long while."

"Then we both won't have to worry about what your department may think of this little liaison should you accept."

"What is Mira-... _Talia_ going to think of it, though?"

"That will not be an issue."

"It better not be. I'm a little sick of everyone trying to do me in." He scoffs. "Join up with some ancient fighting organization, huh. That'd be a great way to..." A thought seems to hit him. "You...never _did_ tell me what you did to Batman."

Bane pushes aside his irritation with some effort. Even thousands of miles away the bastard found little ways of interfering with his life.

"I removed him from the equation." He replies. "Replaced him with one of superior skill, social standing and foresight."

"Let me guess. You?"

"Of course."

The more familiar anger flickers in Blake's eyes. "How the hell can you be so cold about it?"

"On the contrary, John Blake." He takes in a long, slow breath. "From where I stand you seem far too warm concerning a man you don't even know." It doesn't escape his notice the man's still-confident reaction -- he must somehow know the vigilante is still alive.

"I know what good he's done. That counts for something. Even if his methods don't always mirror yours."

"You also overlook everything else."

"...Yeah. Maybe."

A painful concession, one that now leaves Bane a little unbalanced. Blake reaches into his pantry and pulls out a small tin of coffee grounds. He measures them carefully, dosing water in a black coffee maker and working at the knobs with his back now turned to him. He sets a mug down and watches the coffee's trickle for a while before speaking.

"Why me?"

Bane gazes at his back. Rolls the loaded question over and over again in his head, even as his mind's eye envisions him crossing the small gap and pulling the man flush against his chest. _'You're a chaotic element I haven't figured out yet.'_ He thinks. _'I don't know how ready I am to let go of your influence.'_ "...Why not?" He says. "Our goals align closely, if not quite ideally, and you have already shown to me you are genuinely invested in your city's future. Gotham needs all the help it can get."

Blake looks over his shoulder for one long moment before turning to the stove. It would be days before he figures out the man's strange look.

"Got it." He responds curtly as he pulls out a cup of noodles and digs around in the bag, eventually pulling out one of the small cabbages and taking a knife to it. "Well, I have to leave in a few. Errands won't run themselves."

"Of course. I do not expect an immediate decision." Bane pulls his helmet back on and adjusts his coat. "Think on it."

"...You'll get my answer in a day." Blake calls out as he steps back out into the snow.

It's a long ride back to the base. Bane considers the day's small successes and misgivings as he passes through lesser-traveled streets and circumvents the ever watchful eyes of local enforcement, wondering idly to himself who had truly captured who.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tired tired _tired_ this week. Criminy. 
> 
> Anyone else have those perfect atmosphere songs that you play on loop when writing or reading? Because I've got a few that are just **unf.**


	20. Difficult Answers, Easy Questions

Barsad is used to changing his role at the drop of a hat. Even throughout his steady years as a mercenary and sniper he's had to fulfill the role of strategic adviser, mentor and even counselor to keep the League Of Shadows going strong after Ra's' untimely death. This morning he and two others have to masquerade as everyday delivery drivers -- the reactor is an ideal size, able to fit in a standard loading truck with little effort. Winding through the thin and poorly-tended roads of Gotham's countryside he still finds himself missing the soothing routine of a day-to-day desk job. Some things would never change.

The snow-topped mountains and gray sky hearken to his earlier days in Russia, however distantly, and make him crave something warm to drink. It's more the feel of the chilly air on his skin than the monotonous drive that slows his pulse and allows him to more easily slip into his thoughts.

The distribution of power from Talia to Bane will be a little tumultuous, mainly for those that personally knew Ra's when he was alive, but his past brushes with intercommunity strife knows it could be much, much worse. The man was almost a father to his men. He wasn't some warlord or puffed-up politician issuing commands from a lofty tower -- he fought alongside them. Bled with them. It inspired a loyalty that even money couldn't buy.

Bane and Talia's relationship was made clear to anybody who joined early or late -- while rumors would crop up here and there of something more controversial beneath the surface, as was standard in any large group, it was clear to him the bond they shared was that of a father and daughter that had walked through flames together. While he never personally met Ra's, his influence on both of them was stark in nearly everything they did.

Nearly.

He still didn't know why Bane had asked him to act behind her back, though his suspicions ran the gamut of vague to startlingly specific. Talia was a brutal woman, one of the few that could match Bane in both intellect and ruthlessness. It's possible they came to a disagreement so severe he had no choice but to demote her without her knowledge. It's also possible the rumors were indeed true and they were much closer than he gave them credit for. The only comfort he had was knowing it wasn't a request Bane would make lightly.

The pain in his eyes had been too raw, a rare glimpse behind the virtual matryoshka of masks the man wore to cultivate his image. He and Bane were not friends (indeed, the man didn't seem to have _any_ relationships resembling the sort) but the years they shared had started to move them past just leader and worker. A confidant, at the very least. A brother, Bane would perhaps call it during a distracted moment, his easy tone the only clue to the deeper trust they shared.

"I don't mind the snow so much anymore. I just pretend it's cold sand."

He glances into the rearview mirror. Salim is idly polishing his rifle while gazing out the window, even though its gleam could put even Barsad's well-tended stock to shame. Ali isn't quite so interested from where he lays on his back with a magazine draped over his eyes, but he had always been less inclined to thinking and more so to fighting.

"Good. Your taste is improving, then." Barsad says, holding up a hand in a generic wave when another truck passes him by -- standard protocol. "Stay focused."

Their base of operations was well-hidden, hardly more than a series of rocks to the casual eye and concealing an interconnected bunker where they worked tirelessly to convert the reactor alongside smaller explosives for additional projects. It's not easy to move off the road in a truck of such size, so he navigates the treacherous ground as best he can until he's close enough to see the markers that only make sense to those on the inside.

"Rubio. Update me." He says into his speaker when he parks and steps out into the cold.

A flicker of static. " _Pavel is sleeping like a baby_."

"Good. Keep it that way. We'll be in and out."

He hears a different voice, indistinguishable over the crackling audio. The older mercenary grumbles over the line. " _Be honest, brother. Bane didn't tell you anything about why we're moving this on short notice? It took us forever to convert this frozen hellhole._ "

"Progress doesn't happen overnight." He responds, a touch short. "Your complaining will ensure it takes longer, however."

He leaves Salim and Ali in the truck to prepare, walking through the thin snow and, with a cautious glance around him, making his way into the bunker. It's only marginally less chilly than outside, converted to be as functional as possible while showing traces of the human condition -- a couch and a table fill the room the scientist has stayed in, with a few visual embellishments to distinguish it from a cell. Rubio's task had always been to guard him as well as communicate with him when necessary, a human element to keep the man from slipping completely into madness from the isolation. Like Salim he was a talkative sort, though a little less agreeable.

Even with his basic knowledge of nuclear physics (the reactor still has about as much explosive power as a handful of sand) they handle it delicately -- the last thing they need are any cracks that could potentially risk the finicky chemicals inside. Ali double-checks the straps that hold it down with a bored expression, Salim standing atop a nearby hill and looking out into the distance. He holds back his impatience with the young man and keeps his attention on the reactor.

"There's no need to dose Pavel overmuch." Barsad stresses, giving it a once-over for his own sake. "Should he wake prematurely take care to relax him and inform him of the switch. If he shows any signs of nausea try to stay off medication and let it pass naturally. He needs to get back to work as soon as possible."

A _click_.

"Will do."

He turns and looks into the barrel inches from his face.

"...Rubio...?"

"I'll give you a chance to walk away, brother." The man shrugs apologetically. "For old time's sake."

\--

The department feels abandoned in the early morning hours. Only a few voices ever echoed down the halls, primarily receptionists and clerks handling the previous days' backlogs, and the fluorescent lighting always made the place look incredibly dry. Blues were more a suggestion than a reality along the gray carpet and white walls -- even his own footsteps were muffled, making the place feel just a little dreamlike. While Blake was grateful for the lack of human contact (he wasn't interested in any more empty pleasantries), nostalgia nipped at his heels spitefully as he dug around in his locker for anything worth salvaging.

He tosses trash (a surprising amount, he notes with mild embarrassment) and crumples up photos he doesn't want, the majority that only serve to remind him of the giant cluster of wasted time he's created. Pictures at office parties, candid snapshots he didn't know about until after they developed. The only one he saves is the one where he's being sworn in with Gordon at his side -- he winces at the sight of his closely cropped hair and ill-fitting outfit, though it's hard not to eventually smile at just how proud he looked. Memories hurt, but he remained a sucker for them.

"Sad to see you go." He looks over his shoulder at Jeff leaning in the hallway, a paper cup of the department's drip coffee in hand.

Blake shrugs and turns around again. "Not really. Now you won't have to go cleaning up my mess when I screw up."

"Come on, that was the fun part." The guys responds lightly.

"I didn't join for _fun_ , Jeff."

"It'll be less interesting, that's for sure."

He instinctively steels his face into pleasant complacency as Foley walks up and stops just in front of him. It's all he can do not to slug the man in the stomach and run off before Jeff can tackle him.

"I'm sorry to see you go, truly. You were a pain, but you were _our pain_ , right?" The deputy says with a laugh to Jeff, who returns the smile with only the barest hint of embarassment.

Blake had never liked the man. He was a blowhard with a shiny public image and a nasty jealous streak he loved to take out on anyone even a notch beneath him. He _still_ hadn't forgotten how he was more interested in catching Batman and improving his street cred than letting the guy catch the bank robbers they were _both_ pursuing. If he were any more petty he would announce his departure a giant prank and stick around _just_ long enough to make the guy's live hell for indirectly trying to get him put out of commission at the city hall. Instead he would have to try and live by the saying that revenge was a dish best served cold and make the city a better place whether he wanted it or not.

"Well, now I'll be someone else's pain." He responds with a smile. "Good luck catching Bane." He adds as he slings the rather meager pack over his shoulders. "You're gonna need it."

He takes the man's strained smile as a victory.

It's a long walk to the coffee shop, but it feels good to get out and stretch his legs after a morning he still wants to crumple up and throw into the trash.

The scent of roasted beans in the air when he arrives makes his mouth water. If not cigarettes (though he keeps the box in his pocket as a physical reassurance) he could at least have his caffeine fix. ' _Out with one addiction, in with another_ ', he thinks as the barista across the counter flirts with him in-between commentaries on the daily news. People laugh a little too hard around him, talk a little too loud -- Gothamites' particular way of muscling through crises like a plow through snow. The woman slides his receipt to him with a note, giving him a rather charming wink before attending to the next in line.

He's musing over the nicest way to turn her down as he finds the quietest part of the store and checks in with St. Swithin's.

" _Amir just got accepted to an art reception downtown. Pretty big for a kid his age. It'll be tough finding time to help him move paintings, so I'll have to ask to borrow a friend's car..._ " Reilly says over the phone. " _Finn finally put some of his work money to his bail, but he's moodier than ever and won't talk to me. I swear to goodness, it's just one thing after another. If your friend didn't help out I might have actually lost it_."

"Don't worry about it." Blake says, glancing at the counter so he doesn't accidentally miss his order. "I'll talk to-wait, _what?_ Who?"

" _Tell him he's welcome to drop by anytime. Getting them to eat healthy is like pulling teeth, but at least I got something to work with now_."

"I have _no_ clue who you're talking about."

Reilly makes an impatient noise. " _That big guy from last time. Behnem, I think? He brought over a bunch of fresh produce for the boys. Real good stuff, too. Can't remember the last time I had radishes_."

Blake blinks.

"Really? Uh, yeah, I'll let him know." ' _So that's how he figured out my new address_.' He thinks as he reads the menu. ' _You trying to butter me up, Bane? Because this isn't a bad way to do it._ '

" _Where did you meet him? He was very polite. Not at all like I expected. I know I shouldn't judge by appearances, of course, but I was half-convinced he was a mob boss or something with that get-up. _"__

"Oh, yeah. That's...uh, he's a..." Damn it. What lie would sound even remotely convincing?

Blake thanks his rare good luck when the Commissioner walks in through the front door, pulling off his gloves and searching over the cluster of heads. The baristas wave eagerly at him, calling out his usual of an Americano with a shot of cream.

"Sorry, Reilly. I gotta go. We'll still do Wednesday, okay?"

" _Yeah, yeah, of course. Just be careful._ " Gordon catches his gaze, gesturing to a small table by the window, far removed from the cluster of people milling in front of the main bar. " _They miss you_."

Blake collects their drinks at the back counter and makes his way to the table. It feels like ages since they've made small talk. While it would've made a little more sense to go somewhere more private, he was aching to settle back into some sort of mundane routine. The Commissioner is bundled in heavy winter clothing -- even his near-inhuman tolerance for the weather can't hold up to the recent onslaught of wind and ice.

They talk idly about the latest game, pausing only to drink their coffee. It doesn't take long for them to reach the subject of Miranda Tate, however, and Blake has to push away his disappointment with some effort.

"You're asking me to put off telling her? _Again?_ " Gordon asks, sprinkling sugar into his cup.

Blake sighs happily as he finishes his drink -- it's been too long since he's had a quality latte. "I can explain in a few days. Just give me that."

Gordon frowns at him from across the table. "We might not _have_ a few days."

"I think we will." It's an enigmatic response, about as helpful as a kick to the shin, he knows. The old man's thin-lipped mouth makes it clear he's enjoying it about as much.

"Then what do you know? Christ, John. I thought we could..." To the man's credit he stops himself, running a hand through his grey hair and staring at him.

"You said yourself we were just here to keep things from getting worse. That's exactly what I'm trying to do now."

"Listen. What I did was not a personal affront to you. You can stay mad at me until the moon sinks out of orbit. This, however, is something you and I _agreed_ upon." Blake's chest aches a little when he leans forward and fixes him with a worried stare. "You're not...in _trouble_ , are you?"

"No. If anything it's going way better than I thought it would." He doesn't reach out and take the man's hand or arm like he would a close friend, still feeling the weight of his leadership despite recently quitting, but he makes the sentiment as clear as he can in his tone. "Please just...give me a few days. I think it'll work out. I've got a lead that could make it so we won't have to do anything drastic."

"You realize you're asking me as someone who recently quit the force?" He says, a touch wryly, clearly aware of the irony.

"No, I'm asking as a friend." He chuckles. "Even though I'm going to stay mad at you until the moon sinks out of orbit."

Gordon leans back in his seat and rubs his mustache, waving a polite yet impatient hand when the barista checks in with him. He was old-fashioned, but he was practical. Even if it sometimes ended up biting him (and others) in the ass.

"Come on. He's practically family at this point, even though he never visits."

Blake can't help but smile when Barbara walks over. Her red hair is up in a messy bun, a bundle of books under one arm and a coffee in the other. She returns his smile with a vibrant one of her own.

"I have no idea what you're both talking about, but Blake's already got my vote." She gestures with her cup. "Can I join in?"

Gordon lets out a sigh that can only come from a doting grandfather and pulls out a spare chair.

"Just talking about how Bane is still eluding us." He says. "Nothing you haven't heard me rant about before."

The voices around them flicker. Blake glances to the side and sees a few customers peering their way. Maybe the coffee shop wasn't the best idea. Like a staged routine they return to small talk until their surroundings show less interest, stalling until the hubbub picks up again. Barbara is pretty good at it for a teenager, engaging in a just loud enough diatribe about the latest scientific advancements in audio technology, pedantic enough to make even an audio engineer's head sink in boredom. Then again, she had always been clever.

"How does he manage to show up in public constantly but nobody can catch him?" She asks into her cup once they have their bubble again.

"One half of the city is terrified and the other half is getting a real kick out of it." Gordon grumbles. "Bane isn't exactly a lone wolf here. Even the Joker's fanatics were far less populated and... _embraced_..." Blake can't help but perk up -- while they both lived in Gotham since childhood, Gordon was the one on the front lines when some of the most notorious criminals came into power.

"Maybe he's got doppelgangers. Showing up in public all the time but the real one is hiding somewhere." Barbara offers with a glance to Blake -- everyone knew he had a 'brush' with the man, but only Gordon came close to knowing the extent of it.

' _The truth really is stranger than fiction_ '. Blake thinks idly, turning back to the menu politely and earning a disappointed _huff_ from Barbara.

"Well..." Gordon mutters. "...apparently we'll have a pretty good answer as to what exactly is going on in just a few days." He gives the barista his empty cup when she walks by again, speaking once she's out of earshot. "If I feel you're impeding the search..." He looks at Blake. "Just...remember you're a regular citizen now, John."

Blake picks up his mug to get a refill. "Trust me. I haven't forgotten."

\--

A few hours of job searching has him burnt out when he gets back home. His college experience sees him overqualified for basic programming gigs in his area, while his relatively short time in the force has him a little underqualified for positions he more deeply wants -- although the easy money of a security guard gig is tempting, he knows he'd hardly last a few months before wanting to move on. Dipping his toes in social work now has everything else feeling half-assed, even if he knows in his heart it's an essential part of the city's cogwork.

Now that his life's chaos had died down (for the most part) he had time to think clearly about what the hell he was doing. Jobless, aimless, in a new apartment and relying on the good graces of a vigilante who was raising an army in Gotham's storm drains. He chuckles dryly to himself as he pours himself a drink and looks around for his watering can. Why the hell he kept it he still didn't know. Surely he wasn't that lonely.

Thoughts about justice and the future itch at him, enough to distract him from even his favorite silent film when he winds down for the night after some chores. He pulls out his phone during a slow scene. Regrets not asking for Bane's number, then wonders how the hell he would confront something so bizarrely mundane with the guy.

"Hey, just want to catch up with Gotham's newest vigilante." He mutters to himself as he sets it down again. "How are you doing? Wanna spar? How about a booty call?"

He gets back up to water his plant, thoughts starting to get more nervous and itchy. The mere idea of a fight between Batman and Bane still sends a chill down his spine. Contemplating the fact Bane had gotten the upperhand and seemed no worse for the wear almost didn't make sense. Batman wasn't some random schmuck with a death wish -- he was an incredible fighter with one hell of an arsenal on his side. About as literal a definition of weaponizing one's money one could get. He had gone toe-to-toe with some of the world's most legendary maniacs. Did that make Bane the most legendary one yet?

The fact he didn't kill him was even stranger (provided Salim hadn't been yanking him around for kicks). The masked man was an unapologetic murderer -- there were no two ways about it. Seeing him casually throttle one of his men was just a taste to what he'd no doubt done to countless others who got in his way. It was an average moment Blake was questioning what managed to spare him, of all people, the man's unique brand of brutality. Even with their now mutual understanding he was thoroughly convinced the guy had been spat up from the pits of Hell and was dedicated on haunting him.

Blake is so lost in his thoughts he almost overflows the pot. He hisses in frustration and tries to tilt the excess water into the sink, slopping wet fertilizer all over his dirty dishes. He turns on the faucet and watches it swirl into the drain.

He locked him up for days on end. He toppled Batman and removed him when everyone needed him most. That should be enough to make him hate him outright. But he didn't. Hell, he far from didn't. Maybe he was a glutton for punishment. It's what he keeps telling himself as he washes his hands and goes back into the living room.

"The hell have you done besides kidnap me, give me wide-awake nightmares and drive a wedge between me and a good friend?" He says to nobody as he slumps on the couch. "By all rights I should've pulled the trigger."

It was easier said than done. He'd only killed one person in his life and it still haunted him years later. Snuffing out someone's potential was something he thought about a lot, particularly during his (now defunct) line of work, even though he never went quite so far as to say it wasn't necessary. Bane made death look easy. He made everything look easy.

The screen blinks fuzzy white and gray. They could have easily offed each other without a clue (though his subconscious notes, chidingly, he would have stood far less of a chance than the other way around). It was fascinating and horrible how something so simple could have grown into something so complicated. Fate was a tricky topic for Blake, one he found himself wanting to believe in despite his propensity for doubt.

He rubs his temples. There was no use lying to himself at this point. He had seen what the man had to offer the city, however terrifying. The right people were inspired. The right people were scared. Maybe he was trying to make it all seem worse than it actually was. Punish himself for being selfish and wanting to see what, exactly, the man wanted to offer _him_.

It grows harder for him to focus on the film. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to relish in their touch-and-go just a few days prior. How even for something downright impulsive it was clear his, _their_ , attraction ran deeper.

" _I have wanted to do this for quite some time._ "

Blake slides a hand into his pants, stroking himself softly to repeat sensations of the man's hoarse breath in his ear and the feel of his powerful hands sliding up every inch of his bare skin. Commanding as he presses him against the wall with his body, not yielding to Blake's attempt to get them on equal footing, even as he suddenly switches to tender when he drags a hand up his cock and milks him for all he's worth.

He strokes himself faster as he imagines Bane pushing off his clothes. Imagines himself attempting to do the same and ending up pinned again, wherever they found themselves -- against the wall, on the floor, maybe even in an actual bed. He sighs shakily at the thought of the man taking him then and there, still clad in leather and too impatient to undress. Blake was nothing if not a sucker for the way his outfits tended to hug every curve, infuriating in how much and how little they showed. He imagines vividly the feel of his thick thighs beneath his hands as he kisses down the man's hard stomach, the _clip_ of a zipper and the weight of the man's cock in his mouth.

They're scattered sensations, his hungry mind honing in on details faster than he can linger. The masked man reclining lazily as Blake dips his head as far as it can go, the stretch of his throat as he attempts and struggles to satisfy a size he's not used to. The almost painful tightening of his scalp when Bane grips his hair and starts to thrust. He wonders how he would say his name. How the mask would distort the words into something husky and alien. Blake's mind is starting to blank from the pleasure and he grips himself frantically, holding onto these thoughts like a lifeline.

He hasn't forgotten how the man ran a thumb over his lips, somehow the most lustful thing outside of straight-up frotting. The mere thought that he didn't just want him, he's _wanted_ him...

" _Let me savor you._ "

Blake gasps when he comes, grinding one hand into the couch for balance. Bane's amused gaze flits in the recesses of his mind, mocking him for his haste. The movie flickers on ignored as he cleans up after himself, somehow feeling better _and_ worse than before.

The answers weren't easy. They sure as hell weren't going to get any easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There should be a word for that fanfic-feeling where you spend too much time editing and get caught in a perfectionist loop.


	21. Room Enough For Two

Gotham always had a strange relationship with mornings. Hell, daytime in general. If it wasn't smog blotting out the sun it was overcast clouds and snow warnings, like the Earth itself was hellbent on proving a point nobody was even clued in on.

Because of this the city didn't _sleep_ so much as take a lunch break, nothing at all like a small town that actually had a natural relationship with the passage of time. Blake can't remember the last time he had a full night's sleep and he was willing to bet he could throw a rock and hit a person who felt the same. It was probably going to kill him at forty-five, if he was lucky enough to even make it to that age. ' _Another good reason I'm weaning myself_ ', he thinks as he lights his single daily cigarette on his patio. He breathes in slowly, trying to last it as long as possible.

Rubbing the weariness from his eyes he turns on the television when he goes back inside -- it's too late to go back to bed, too early to feel like doing anything yet. He flips through channels, warring with watching the daily news and putting on another silent film, and halts when he sees Bane's familiar silhouette on a local channel.

The man is standing on what looks like a retrofitted tank (somehow familiar, though he can't place how), gesturing to hundreds crowded before him in a shifting black and grey mass. While many were young adults, there were quite a few who were older and even a smattering of kids near the front. Barsad is nowhere to be found, a man he doesn't recognize instead standing near Bane and observing the proceeds while occasionally lifting a hand to his ear. The audio is blurred by the commotion -- it takes Blake a few moments to realize Bane is speaking in Spanish. He leans forward in fascination, the man's words flowing like water through the speakers.

" _Siempre la gente._ " He says, still sounding like an aged gentleman despite his sinister appearance. " _Siempre el futuro._ "

His college French classes only catch a few words and false friends, but the fire the man ignites in the crowd is unmistakable. They howl with approval as he sweeps his hands through the air, as if beckoning them and commending them all at once. It's an immigrant district, he recalls distantly, one that was hit the hardest after recent institutional changes. One of his first tasks as an officer involved crowd control during a protest involving low wages -- he still couldn't rub off how dirty he felt when he was commanded to pin down a middle-aged mother when she attempted to break through the police lines, sobbing about being laid off of her job and the tenuous future of her daughter.  


" _Siempre la gente_." They chant. " _Siempre el futuro_." 

Multiple cars pull up in the peripheries. The mood changes from eager to agitated -- the camera starts to shake as it hones in past the swiveling heads, veering closer on the officers that step out and yell indistinctly at those gathered. Like sheepdogs nipping at the heels of livestock they try to corral the audience, many of which are starting to yell angrily and make rude gestures. Neither side budges for a few shaky minutes. Blake's throat clutches -- it's going to get ugly.

A fight breaks out. Bottles and rocks are thrown, smashing into the faces of officers and sending them scrambling to the ground. They retaliate with batons and, to Blake's horror, aim for faces as well as stomachs. Children are hurried out of the crowd. A shot is fired into the air, cutting through the chaos of bodies for a hot second -- any other group would have dispersed or backed off at that, but this district had been through far worse. Bane's presence, as already demonstrated in what was becoming countless videos and snapshots, was like a match on a bundle of kindling.

" _Siempre la gente_." They roar. " _Siempre el futuro_."

The masked man watches the proceeds from atop the tank, coat flapping in the wind.

\--

It's a common concern of many how he manages to slip right under the nose of authorities despite his size and appearance. It would never be a concern of Bane's.

The masked man would watch carefully edited interviews and awareness campaigns on his off time to learn more about the tall tales being spun about him and his followers, even as they tended to bore him with their redundancy. Some claimed him one of many false leads, a virtual conga line of stunt doubles while the one pulling the strings remained hidden. Others suggested, much to his endless amusement, he was Batman risen again to turn on the city he once loved. He had long since learned people simply don't see what they don't want to see. What they considered one of his many talents was merely a backfiring on their willful ignorance, one he was willing to exploit for as long as possible.

With shots fired and the people justifiably enraged he decided to take his leave, as much to work behind-the-scenes as to encourage them to fight on their own terms. He never meant to be a sole deliverer -- rather, he wanted to help them learn how to help themselves.

He doesn't need a uniform to tell him who's who when he departs. An excess of power and deficit of responsibility has a way of leaving its mark like slop on a pig. Trading his sheepskin coat for his leather jacket he catches a glimpse of a man leaning inside a patrol vehicle, just outside of the main square where the protest continues to rage, whispering hurriedly into something in his hand. Bane studies the holster on his waist, then beckons his two men to move on without him.

"I think there are more productive uses of your time than failing your citizens, officer."

The man whirls around, face blanching when he realizes who's speaking to him. He fumbles for his gun, hardly drawing it out before Bane slams a fist into his throat. While he chokes for breath he reaches in and crushes the in-car camera in one hand. Picks the man back up by his neck with the other and pushes him against the side window.

"I am nothing if not generous." He says as the man writhes ineffectually. "Walk away now and live to see a better Gotham." He tightens his grip. "Or die a coward that would not even let the masses assemble peacefully."

"They're gonna c-catch you." He wheezes, arrogant even in terror. "They're gonna fuck you up. I have a tracking device that will le-"

"Duly noted." He says as he twists the man's neck.

The throes of a beautiful and terrible city.

He unlocks his motorcycle and puts on his helmet. It's difficult not to marvel at it sometimes, this temporary home of his. Ugly in its permanent deceit, all but a stain on his conscience for years, he's nonetheless grown to appreciate it over time. Only through witnessing the hardiness of its communities first-hand did its core brilliance start to truly peek through -- he allows himself to soak in the mingled rage and pride at which the city's residents fought back at the square as he drives deeper into the city.

Blending into traffic is easy -- he slows down just enough to move to the outer roads where cars are less congested before speeding up. Barsad hadn't yet contacted him. It was troubling, considering his strict punctuality, but he wasn't about to dwell on what-ifs. Not with so many already threatening to cloud his vision. At the very least he was going to find out if John Blake was interested in helping them break the cycle.

A strange circumstance he found himself in, but he was pragmatic. The man, with a little more fine tuning, could very well be an asset to their cause. Perhaps more so. After double-checking with his men at their rendezvous he pulls up to the man's apartment complex, staunchly ignoring the nagging pull of hope .

The door is unlocked when he arrives. Strange. The detective may be impulsive, but careless wasn't an adjective he'd yet subscribe. He walks in without another word, silent as death, cautious of something wrong just around the corner. Clipped voices filter in and out of one of the rooms and he can see a scattering of papers on the small table in the kitchen. His fingers twitch as he prepares for an intruder or trap.

Then he sees it.

Despair.

The radio is off and the television plays unheeded on low volume. Half-open boxes litter the floor. Blake is sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. He can tell he's been there a while. He halts in the entryway. The man's head whips up in alarm, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. "Not now." His voice is scratchy as he lowers his head again. "...Please."

Bane watches as the man wipes his eyes and struggles to pull himself together in light of company. Caution roots him to the spot -- he's mindful of the strange thread that holds them together. How easily it could strengthen or snap.

"What troubles you...?"

"...What the hell _doesn't_." He shuts his mouth suddenly, as if he's said too much, then stands up. He doesn't leave, instead fidgeting and rubbing his hair furiously. A few seconds of silence, then... "Was going over my resume for applications today. Lead me to my resume of failures. You've had a front row seat to those."

Bane folds his hands in front of him. "I'm afraid I don't."

It's a manipulative answer, one that earns him a sharp look, but he knows from experience one of despair's greatest enemies is distraction.

"Oh, give me a break. You're a smart guy. Smart, brutal, fearless. ...Everything I'm _not_." The man starts to quiver with anger as Bane continues to stare him down calmly.

"Again you credit me with too much."

"You know what I mean." He almost spits these words at him, but it's a helpless anger, one without direction. "You may be a motherfucking menace, but you got Gotham in the palm of your hand in just a few months. I've been spinning my wheels for _years_. Spinning my _damn_ wheels and having shit to show for it. The city is falling apart all over again and I'm not helping anyone. Not my friends. Not my kids. Thought I could blame you, but it's always been like this. You just popped the top off a shaken bottle. I saw everything just now..."

He laughs, bitterly, and clutches his hair in a white-knuckle grip.

"What, you're here to ask if some nobody former beat cop wants to help you turn the city around? I'll have to double-check my busy schedule and pencil it in-between aimless wandering and fuck up number twenty."

The man is breaking down. All Bane can do is stand and watch, knowing that even a benign wrong move could make it worse.

"The boys thought I was ditching them. They're still worried I'll just...up and leave and not show up again. _Again_. I can't even blame them. I'm not around enough. All for a career field that did more harm than good. I barely kept those fucks from killing a bunch of innocent people. I barely made a dent in the corruption that Gotham is _fucking_ known for. I barely did...anything. Been here all my life. All my life..."

His arms drop helplessly to hang at his sides.

"Done everything wrong when all I wanted was to do just one thing right." His voice wavers, then cracks. "My parents would've been proud."

Bane stares. There was no true despair without hope and the detective had held hope firm in his heart for years. What he was experiencing was the fall that came from suspending too much for too long, a drop that could see him swallowed entirely with no chance of climbing back out.

"...John."

The more familiar title feels strange on his tongue. Comforting. This jolts the man out of his reverie momentarily.

"Your orphanage looks up to you. Your city craves a genuine soul. Failure is a harsh teacher, yes, but one you choose to listen to."

He's no longer fidgeting. His eyes are glinting -- hurt and exhausted and attentive and hopeful and despairing and so many things he could get lost in. In his mind's eye he can see himself reaching down and out, pressing a thumb and pushing the tear away, mindful of the scars dusting his cheekbone. He watches it trail down his cheek, disappearing into the fine hair along his jawline.

"You survived experiences that would have killed or debilitated anyone else. You made the choice to seek out the truth instead of giving in to ego. Do not be so quick to lambast what you've done for the city, as small as it may seem from your vantage point."

Blake's mouth twists and he looks away, unconvinced and miserable. Vulnerability isn't easy for Bane. He has to collect himself for a moment before continuing, even as every word is a struggle he's not used to.

"You are...not the only one who has failed." He responds with a deliberation he doesn't quite feel. "I could have indirectly sentenced Gotham to a premature death."

Blake looks back at him.

"I was wrong about you...and I fear I am not the only one."

More come. They roll down his cheeks now, his hands shaking as he tries and fails to push them away and control himself. He grinds the heels of his palms against his eyes and fails to gulp back heavy breaths.

Bane had long since learned that what he wants he can't always have. He couldn't have a childhood, sentenced to the pit for a crime he never committed and almost doomed to a life of plague and isolation. He wouldn't live out his years peacefully on farmland or on the outskirts of a small town. He couldn't live without his mask, nor would he want to. Never was an impassive force he had long since made his peace with.

So why now, of all times, did it feel like a brand new horror?

He walks through the doorway, closer to the man emotionally crumbling before him. The masked man reaches out, hesitates, then presses a hand to Blake's cheek. The detective stares at him in shock.

"You have made it clear you don't need to be me or anyone else." He says, softly. "You need to be you."

Blake stares at him with glistening, dark eyes. Then he leans forward and presses his forehead against his collar. Bane stiffens, momentarily stunned. The moment hangs in the air, as tenuous as he suddenly feels, and it's all he can do to just place an uncertain hand on the man's shoulder.

"Tell me to leave." He says, looking down at his mussed black hair. "And I will go."

Blake slowly pulls back, letting out a wet, weak laugh. 

"It was always that easy, huh?" He responds wryly, only to suddenly sober and turn away. "I'll...I'll be right back." He disappears down the hall. He hears a door shut a second later.

So Bane stands and waits, still struggling to figure out what exactly transpired. The muffled rush of water just barely carries into the living room -- he's taking a shower. Bane's eyes catch hold of a small bookcase. He kneels and browses its contents, as much to learn more about the man as to provide him a distraction. There are quite a few thriller novels, only occasionally broken up by an encyclopedia or old magazine. He pulls out a dark book thick with dog-ears.

He flicks through it, frowning at the ruined pages -- it's a mystery tale about a boy whose parents disappear in the night. With nobody willing to help him he searches the abandoned outlands that surround his home for clues, slowly becoming more obsessive and vengeful along the way. He reads it out-of-order, instead following each dog-ear in an attempt to figure out what Blake is holding onto and why.

The creak of a door pulls his gaze up after what seems like no time at all. Blake leans in the doorway ruffling his hair with a towel -- he's wearing that same blue and black jacket, a sharp contrast to his light gray jeans and thick boots.

"Let's get out of here."

\--

The wind howls defiantly as they glide down the road. The detective directs him toward further backroads, either under construction or needing construction to avoid any potential run-ins with traffic officers or guards. He's mildly impressed by Blake's nerve -- while he would occasionally clutch his jacket during a sharp turn, he otherwise seemed unbothered by the speed. Even comfortable with how easily he leans into each motion.

They pull up along one of Gotham's harbors, partially swallowed by leftover morning fog and the ocean's spray. Bane parks well out of sight beneath an overhang, locking the motorcycle with a thick chain before following the man up a rocky outcrop and across an old dock. The city before them is just distinguishable through the haze.

"Forget masseuse. You'd make a better monster truck driver."

"I'm flattered. My head may no longer fit in my helmet now."

"Then can you hand it to me? Because I think I'm going to puke."

It's an empty threat -- there's a healthy flush to his cheeks and the man stretches languidly before leaning his elbows on the rails. He pulls a bottle out of his pocket, using the cap opener on his keys to pop off the lid and take a deep drink. Bane watches as the wind tosses around his black hair and occasionally spackles it with white. He wonders how beer would taste on the man's lips.

The occasional long horn of a distant boat cuts through the ocean's omnipresent hiss. A city of ten million, yet Gotham somehow had a way of making residents and visitors alike feel as though they were frozen in an abstract limbo. Thick fog drapes around them in sluggish curtains, pushed away by the cold wind only to close back in again with a life all their own. If not for the distant spires peering through the gray the average person could easily confuse the bridge they were on for an island.

The isolation makes it easier to talk, even as the icy breeze clips his throat and churns his stomach. He was never much for cold climates, though Blake's presence continues to have a way of warming him. It's been too long since he's simply enjoyed the company of someone outside his small and very immediate circle. He asks simple questions, indulging in the close space they share and the way Blake's eyes keep flicking back his way with something deeper than curiosity.  


"...we were supposed to have a place up on the hills." Blake says in-between sips. "Nice little Jewish community with roots in Gotham's first immigration wave. We had relatives who had been there awhile and planned for us to...well. It didn't happen. Mom got killed in a car crash when I was seven. I think we were on our way to a birthday party. Yeah, it was a party. Can't recall whose. All I can really remember is waking up in the hospital room with my head in bandages being told dad was going to take care of me from then on."

He takes another drink, deeper this time. "Dad never...really recovered from it. Youth is good for one thing, I guess, and that's being too wrapped up in everyday life to really dwell on things. You get older and that flexibility just sort of fades away. He got into gambling after a pretty long addiction to Oxycontin, which he was using originally for back pain...just never found the right resources to pull himself together again."

"My grandmother did her best to get through to him...she was my mother's mother...but it never panned out. She'd babysit me when he was out or cook dinner when he got sick from a bad dose. He got shot one day when he wasn't able to pay off a debt he owed from his favorite ring. I was a little older. I remember that one...pretty well."

His eyes harden, briefly, then go back to the vacant stare of memory.

"She offered to take me in afterward, but I was...messed up at that point. She wasn't exactly healthy and I was just..." He sighs. "...blaming her for everything. For not getting through to him and getting him to stop. It was stupid. It wasn't her fault in the least. She checked on me as much as she could while I went from boy's home to boy's home 'til her illness caught up with her. Never told her I was sorry."

He glances at Bane, as if to make sure he's listening. The man returns his gaze, urging him to continue with his silence.

"I already told you about going through different orphanages 'til Swithin's took me in. I kept..." He laughs, suddenly, and shakes his head. "I kept thinking I was going to find the guy and kick his ass for what he did to dad. Like something out of the movies, you know? Show up on the guy's porch one day, deliver a smart one-liner and blow his brains out. Later find out who crashed into mom and do something similar. Batman was pretty much the fantasy I had when reality didn't line up. A fantasy for everyone, really, but it kept me fighting when all I wanted to do was stay down."

_'Well, Bruce.'_ Bane thinks. _'I suppose you were not entirely useless.'_

"College didn't pan out...then there were all those odd jobs afterwards, bumming around St. Swithin's, trying to figure out what the hell to do with myself...the academy was the closest I'd been to finding direction and now? Ha. When you want something for so long, it doesn't really matter what happens. If you don't get it, everything in-between just feels like a waste."

"That is why you stayed." Bane says, hunching forward a little as the cold wind continues to strike them with heavy hands. The motion moves him a touch closer to Blake, their shoulders almost brushing. "Despite your reservations."

"...Yeah." He answers softly. "Nobody wants to think they put in all that work, all that time and effort and blood and sweat, for nothing."

The bottle is almost empty. Bane watches him swirl the remaining contents around in thought. "...What about you?"

Bane glances sideways at him.

"I mean, you do mysterious pretty good...but I've earned a few tidbits about you, I think." The alcohol seems to be relaxing him, though it could be something else causing that telltale twinkle in his eyes.

"Very well." Bane responds. "Shoot."

"Where'd you learn Spanish?" He starts, only to hold up a hand for his pause. "Actually, wait, let me rephrase that. How many languages _do_ you speak?"

"An interesting choice to start with." He responds mildly. "Seven."

He whistles softly. "Where'd you find the time to learn so many?"

Bane tilts his head in a shrug. "There was little else to do where I grew up."

"Where was that?"

"I was raised in a pit."

Blake smiles a little. "Guess we can relate on something new now."

"Fifty feet tall and twenty feet wide."

His face falls.

"...Oh."

"'Hell On Earth', many called it." He continues mechanically. "All the prisoners within could see is the sky. The only reprieve from dry stone and drier air, as hopeful as it was impossible." He looks about him and resists the urge to sigh. "So much ocean still feels alien to me. Nothing moved quite so much where I came from."

Blake doesn't respond. He turns to see the man's eyes wide with horror. In spite of the hardening experiences he's been through he's still soft. It's an impractical reaction and it gives an edge to his next words.

"...Shall I stop?"

He's jolted out of the feeling. He shakes his head. 

"No, please. Continue."

"I was there for a significant portion of my life." He folds his hands over the rail and watches the play of gulls on the breeze. "I did not see the outside world until I was a man."

"How did you get out?"

"Talia came back for me."

He stares him down, watching for any sign of spite or doubt that could rise from the declaration. Blake instead looks troubled. Even confused.

"How?"

"She was born there...and the only one known to escape."

His brows crinkle. "Were you...also born there?"

"No, but I might as well have been." Bane relaxes, just a little. "I was placed there for a crime my father apparently committed when I was very young, one my mother and I paid for with our lives. I never found out exactly what that was. Ten different stories, all with wildly different details. I would not learn the concept of closure for many years."

Blake doesn't speak, listening with rapt attention, the pain in his eyes far more fresh than Bane's own.

"The only hint to my mother's place of origin, as well as my own, was through the lilt to her words. Once I reached the surface I made it a mission to find traces of her again. Anything to burn away the past and create room for something new to grow. To Portugal, to Spain, to Brazil, I wandered as best I could in-between my obligations to the League Of Shadows. I eventually found myself in a port town in Mexico. Las Salinas De Los Soles. An old and small place on the cusp of a larger city I spent as much time in as I could."

His memories churn like an aged recording, some details crisp and others weathered.

"My search only found me a distant relative, a cousin that claimed my appearance the work of the devil." He could remember the disgust in their eyes as clear as if it were yesterday. "I did not wear my mask everywhere yet."

He rolls his neck -- the strain of the day is starting to catch up with him, even with the analgesic working tirelessly. The detective's eyes furrow in concern, full of questions, but he stays silent. He allows himself a few deep breaths before continuing.

"Turns out I would find the darkness to be a soothing lullaby for the evils that lurked without. The pit was honest. Unyielding. The light held deception and disease. Even as I wandered the city, a now free man, I saw the pits that held everyday people in their thrall. They may have no cloistered walls, no parched sands, but every time they would try to climb out...they would sink back in."

"Full-time employment, academic acknowledgement, fame...nothing could free them from their torment. I then realized I had left Heaven and rose into Hell. What does a man do, then, with that knowledge?"

He looks down at the detective staring up at him.

"That he had done all that breathing...for nothing."

"At least you escaped." Blake says into the potential silence. "Got the opportunity for something better."

Still soft.

"...I never escaped."

Blake's voice is almost inaudible through the call of gulls and the tumultuous rush of the sea below them.

"Do you...ever want to go back?"

Bane frowns. It's not what he expected to hear.

"...It's fine. You can dodge this question." Blake downs the last of his beer and stuffs the empty bottle back into his pocket. "No wonder..." A thread of irritation courses through Bane at his tone.

"What, exactly, do you wonder?"

"I just...I can see why you view the world the way you do." He bites his lip. "That's really fucked up."

"Your pity is unnecessary." He replies, brusquely. "You have satiated your curiosity. Do not sully it with sweet nothings."

"I don't feel _pity_ , Bane." Blake stresses, watching the car lights blinking in the distance. "You deserved better than that."

"Had I gotten better I would not be here."

"...Maybe." He pulls up his coat a little. "Does that mean you shouldn't ever _want_ better, though?"

Bane says nothing.

The air between them settles into something not quite close and not quite distant. Together they watch Gotham in silence, the sun through the fog dipping below the buildings to make way for the blues on the horizon.

\--

It starts to snow when they head back out, the wind twisting and snapping unpredictably. The flow swirls around them from all sides, broken only by the play of wheels and the occasional obstacle. The sky is choking with dark clouds -- a storm is around the corner.

Blake settles behind him. "You mind if we take a small detour on the way back?" He asks as he starts the engine. "I really should pick up some firewood."

"Yes." His skin prickles pleasantly when Blake wraps his arms around his waist, resting his cheek against his back. "Lead the way."

Bane follows Blake's directions beyond the highway and through to a small neighborhood peppered with what appear to be independent businesses and repair shops. Despite the ride being a touch more hectic than before the dark does little to dissuade his sense of direction. He immediately misses the feel of the man's soft grip when he hops off the bike and jogs into the shop. Judging by the enthused greetings that meet him he's a regular.

Bane takes the spare moment to stretch his aching back and neck, trying to sort out the mixture of emotions brewing beneath the surface. Talking had proven almost therapeutic -- he was a secretive man, as he had to be, yet there was a strange sense of ease letting someone in, however briefly. How far was he going to go with this? Perhaps the answer lay in the next few weeks and what, exactly, Gotham would do with his dangerous gift. How Talia would respond to a forcible changing of her views.

Afterwards...

The soft _crunch_ of footsteps signal the detective's return. He turns to see Blake holding a large bundle of wood logs and studying him curiously.

"You all right?" He asks, giving him another once-over before setting it down on the motorcycle's small rack. "Bad back?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

"You got me a bag full of vegetables after my romp with pneumonia. I can't even ask if you're okay?" His mouth is quirked as he straps it down, but the worry doesn't leave his eyes.

"Old aches and pains." He says, reaching out and flicking snow from the man's hair. He bats his hand away with a playful smile.

"There's plenty more where that came from. Come on. Let's get out of here before we're walled in."

It's starting to snow more heavily now. Blake grips his waist nervously when they slip a few times along the roads, the downside to their lack of activity the neglected build-up of snow and ice. Despite the biting cold Bane finds himself enjoying the tempestuous darkness surrounding them. That is, until a siren blares. He glances over his shoulder to see a blue and red light following them in the fog.

He can just hear the man curse over the wind.

"Ah, damn it. I knew I should've brought my bike helmet." Blake grumbles. "Just let me handle it, maybe it's someone I know-"

Bane shifts gears. They're just far enough ahead.

"Wait." He feels Blake grip his jacket. "You're not going to-"

He cries out as Bane suddenly swerves to the right and lurches forward, risking the thick layer of snow to slide down the dirt hill into the next road.

"Oh god oh god oh _god_ -"

It's slippery, but years of training have made it little more than another exercise for him. He lets the motorcycle weave its way through the snow, occasionally grinding his boot into the ground to maintain direction and keep them from tipping over entirely. They hit level ground with a hard bump, Blake clutching his waist so hard he's sure he'll leave an imprint in his jacket. He has to navigate a few more uneven hills before they're back on smooth gravel. Once he's sure the path is clear he punches the gas and heads straight into the growing hail. He doesn't slow down until the officer's pursuit is a mere detail and more familiar neighborhoods rise in his peripheries.

"Warn me first." Blake says once they pull up beside his apartment, not even trying to hide his shaking legs. He leans his hands on his knees, panting white into the air. "I wasn't even wearing a _helmet_."

"Not my fault." Bane responds lightly. "You should have been more prepared."

"I don't think I was prepared for _you_." He says with a shaky laugh -- Bane doesn't miss the color rising in his cheeks. "You're gonna have to tell me where you learned how to do _that_ , too."

Bane leaves his motorcycle beneath the meager roof and leans in the doorway, watching Blake as he heads straight to the fireplace at the far end of the main room and starts to push blocks of wood inside. Bane looks over his head and pauses at the sight of a small chess on a nearby shelf. He's not sure how he missed it before.

"...You play?"

"What?" He asks, following his gaze as he strikes a match. "...Oh, yeah. It was a therapy thing when I was younger." He frowns curiously. "You're not challenging me to a match, are you?"

"No." Bane says. Blake turns back to the fireplace only to freeze when he adds, "It would not be a _challenge_ , per se."

He holds back a chuckle when the man's shoulders stiffen. He tosses the rest of the matches into the growing fire and rises to pluck it off the shelf.

"Sit your ass down."

Bane kicks the door shut with one foot and follows him. Blake flicks on the light in the kitchen and sets it down on the table, opening it and spreading it out carefully. It's a quaint little thing, just a little old, and looks like it was handmade. The pieces are the original designs rather than spin-offs or artistic interpretations.

"I'll make this quick." Bane grunts as he sits down, leaning forward and watching Blake set up the pieces. He settles across from him when he's finished and picks up a white pawn, only to pause.

"You can go first."

"I insist."

"Who doesn't like going first in chess?"

"Those that know better."

"Flip a coin?"

"You stall."

"Fine." He pushes it across the board, a competitive glint in his eyes. "I'm beating you either way." He rests a chin in his hand and scans the pieces. "Other players used to call me the 'Nightwing' because of how I'd suddenly swoop in with a killer move. You won't even see this coming."

Blake loses in six turns. The man sits and gapes the board in shock, eyes flicking back and forth in an attempt to assess where he went wrong. Bane turns the king this way and that in the light -- he missed this game.

"Okay... _okay_ , rematch. That's ridiculous." He says, clearing the board. Bane glances out the window.

"The snow is starting to rise."

"You can stay until the blizzard dies down. The roads aren't getting any better." He says, moving from the table to go back to the furnace and pick up another log.

"I have braved worse." Bane responds, reaching over and picking up his helmet.

"...Let me rephrase that, then." A _creak_ as Blake opens the grate. "I want you to stay."

Bane pauses in the middle of latching on his helmet strap. Blake hasn't turned around, now prodding at the wood with a poker as it starts to darken and sink into the growing flames.

For someone so blunt he holds out his honesty like a delicate thing. It slowly dawns on Bane that the man wants more of him. Not just his strength, but his weakness, too. It's a startling realization, one only shaken away by the disappointed sagging of the man's shoulders at his hesitance.

"...I mean, it's not a big deal." He eventually says, smooth tone not quite hiding a hint of regret. "I get you're busy."

The masked man sets his helmet back down and rises from the table. He can feel his previous inhibitions slowly and fondly melting away between the time it takes to cross from the kitchen to where Blake is now standing in front of the hearty fire with his arms crossed. He slides an arm around the detective's waist from behind, mindful of his cold mask and keeping it pressed against the clothed crook of his shoulder.

"You don't have to lie, John." He murmurs against his hair. "Not to me."

The detective had stiffened at the sudden touch, only to slowly relax, a shudder that has him leaning back against him. Bane raises his eyebrows curiously when he twists around in his half-grasp to kiss his cheek -- despite being a rather chaste gesture, it makes him ache for more.

"I won't lie, either." Bane continues as he lowers his head so Blake has better access. "I wasn't exactly prepared for you."

He can feel the man smile against his skin. A pleasant little sensation. "Guess we're both a little out of our element, huh...?"

There's no scent for him to latch onto, no taste of the man to linger on his tongue. Instead he focuses on the scratch of his stubble as Blake curls arms up around his shoulders, now eager from his reciprocation, and kisses his cheek and jaw and neck again and again. Bane's leather coat crinkles beneath his hands as he attempts to work off his jacket is somehow loud against the crackle of the fire -- he shrugs it onto the floor, flicking off his gloves before makes short work of the detective's thick jacket.

Blake's breath shakes. Nervous, maybe. Quietly excited. Bane squeezes his hips, then drags his hands up his lean form and makes short work of incomplete fantasies. Categorizing every bump of lean, sinewy muscle. The detective gladly obliges when Bane urges his undershirt off, tossing it onto the floor and nearly sending it straight through the fireplace.

Bane lets out an appreciative growl when he then goes for his belt, pushing his hands down and instead unbuckling him.

"Okay, you need to tell me what's up with that." He sighs as Bane slides a hand between his legs. "I feel like you're messing with me."

"A brace for my back." He says, squeezing gently and making the man swallow back a groan. "I prefer to keep it on as long as possible."

"Okay..." He says, biting his lip and grinding into his hand. "You could've just said so."

He _would_ say he doesn't make a habit of detailing his mobility issues when the detective pulls his hands away from his crotch back to his ass. The heat building in his loins reaches a fever pitch -- even with the obvious implication Bane asks, only because he can barely trust himself not to strip off his jeans and fuck him against the wall then and there.

"Come on." He chuckles. "I didn't shower just to condition my hair..."

"Planning ahead?" Bane says with a chuckle of his own, though it's coarse with lust. "Who are you and what have you done with John Blake?"

Blake laughs again, harder this time, and it's one of the most brilliant sounds he's ever heard.

The room he's lead to is barely furnished and similarly slapdash, but Bane only has eyes for the detective. He lifts him and tosses him onto the bed (much to his surprise) and drags off his briefs, then his jeans. The force of the movement slides him down and he pushes him right back where he wants him, drinking in the sight of him through the dim lighting -- the scattershot, silvery scars flecking his chest, the thicker and more erratic one along his forearm. A map of sporadic violence he follows with his hands in lieu of his mouth, even as he wants so _badly_ to bite his soft skin and leave another.

"Wish I could kiss you." Blake murmurs huskily, moving his mouth up his chest to run along his collar. Exploring his boundaries bit by bit, shying away from the mask still. Bane is not so inhibited, moving two fingers along the scar starting to fade along that brilliant, expressive mouth. His breath hitches, then grows ragged when Blake kisses his fingertips, then draws them in and sucks softly. He would have to feel that mouth around his cock someday.

Sex had been forbidden during his time in the League Of Shadows -- learning how to engage with his pleasure years after the fact had been a thrilling expedition, something he rode to its peak once the organization was all but defunct. He lay with men and occasionally women to work off excess energy after missions, his mercenaries eager to please him in any way possible by offering themselves in private as well as the battlefield. Bane would later become more conservative when these flings created ugly conflicts with unseen consequences down the line, learning firsthand the obsession or resentment that could follow an intimate night between leader and follower.

He would later turn to sex workers to stave off the encroaching loneliness that even fighting couldn't dampen. They were formal couplings, as impartial as a meeting and ending far more quickly. He was familiar with the fear. The way eyes would cling to his mask during a cold and efficient session, and that was if they didn't maintain a long, silent gaze away from him.

Bane knew fear, in all its hues. There was none in Blake's eyes. Fear for reputation, perhaps. Sexual self-consciousness. But not of him.

Bane's other hand moves to steady his hips, only to halt and curiously thumb the small tattoo he finds there. Three birds in an arc. Blake's mouth quirks against his palm, lashes framing his dark eyes so thoroughly as to make them seem closed.

"Come on. I can't have a secret or two...?" He says, only to sigh and twist beautifully when Bane trades hands and pushes a now-slick finger into him.

"I suppose, now that I have you where I want you."

"Ah, _shit_." Blake's entire body goes as rigid as a pole, breath quickening as Bane spreads his legs and puts his pleasure first. More _mutual_ sexual encounters have been a fleeting occurrence for years, so he's rather pleased when it doesn't take long for him to find exactly what reduces the man to bucking helplessly in his grasp -- one touch and Blake is gasping like a breached fish, eyes popping open only to crush shut again. He curls his finger just so and digs in with gusto, savoring each moan as if they were his own.

"O-Oh. _Oh._ Damn." He pants. "Don't stop. _Please_ for the love of God don't stop."

"Begging again." Bane growls into his hair, hoarsely, growing harder by the second with each thrust of his finger. He's not sure how much longer he can wait, not with the man so stubbornly _tight_ even through his attempts to stretch him open. He attempts another, only for Blake to grip his shoulder with an urgent hand, the other twisting into the sheets as he attempts to seek purchase and his pleasure both.

"Wait, wait. Got stuff in the drawer." He grits out, face flushed. "Right over there."

Bane grinds the tip of his finger into that soft spot once more, earning a sharp curse before pulling out and reaching over him to the drawer. Blake leans up and bites his collar with a growl.

"Jerk."

Bane pulls it open, flicking away a notebook and pulling out a small tube. The man tempers his bite, kneading at the skin in almost-kisses. Just a little coy.

"Haven't, uh, been with anyone in a while." Blake murmurs against his skin. "Don't have anything. If you do I have condoms..."

"No..." Bane says as he pours a generous amount and slicks himself from base to tip. Blake leans back a little, dark eyes following the motion with interest. "I cannot afford the irresponsibility."

"Good..." Blake murmurs, throat bobbing visibly as he looks from him to his hand and back again. "That's...good." His mouth quirks in a half-smile. "Not, uh...sure they'd fit you, to be honest."

Bane smiles a little, then leans forward and slowly straddles him, erect cock brushing against the detective's. He reaches up and adjusts the flow of his mask, knowing the pleasure will provide a trade-in for the reduced analgesic. A series of soft _clicks_ and the thick brace that wraps around his lower abdomen slides to the mattress, then the floor, his jeans quickly following suit. The man slowly moistens his lips as he watches, then moves eager hands up Bane's thighs as he positions himself.

It's only when he starts to prod against him does he suddenly stiffen and pull back.

"Yeah, it's _really_ been a while..." He starts, a little hastily. For a moment Bane wonders if he's getting second thoughts. Then Blake urges him up, just a little. Bane leans on his elbows as he shifts beneath him and rolls over onto his stomach, letting the new position speak for itself.

For a moment all Bane can do is stare at the handsome man spread out and vulnerable beneath him. The back of Blake's neck grows red as he runs a slow hand along the back of his thigh to rise along the swell of his ass. Travels his fingers up his spine. Marveling at every little detail. Blake starts to shift beneath his touch, an endearing little squirm that has him peering over his shoulder with an expression caught between impatient and something much shyer.

So different. For them both.

"Uh...hey." He starts, voice as soft as the dark, and Bane has a sudden, primal need to be as close as physically possible. "You can-"

Bane can hear the man's mouth snap shut with an audible _click_ when he drapes himself over him, bulky form fitting over his smaller frame with appealing ease. With one hand he hikes up his hip to level with his aching cock, nuzzling his dark hair with the front of his mask before leaning inside.

Blake gasps sharply, the oil working a little _too_ well and slipping him in almost to the hilt. He has to catch himself on one hand and pause for them both. It takes every last ounce of Bane's willpower to give the man beneath him time to adjust -- even as the clench around him is _bliss_ , he knows he could hurt him if he's not careful. Indeed, he can feel him tightening fitfully around him, instinctively trying to figure out his girth, and his breath is sharp and ragged.

It doesn't take long for the detective to grow deliciously impatient, though, bending down like a cat and arching back into him. Bane moves from his hip to grip his ass with both hands and sink as deep as he can into that silky heat.

"That's..." Blake breathes, almost a choke, clawing his fingers down the sheets and leaving hollows in their wake. "... _fuuuck_..."

It's been too long. Every maddening stroke lays waste to his poise, pleasure almost painful pulling up his spine with every roll of his hips. Steady rocking bleeds into fast, _hard_ thrusts, a rhythm that creaks the bed and dances the headboard off the wall. Much like in the upper levels of St. Swithin's the man tries to control his volume, gasping and hissing into the curve of his arms as he's fucked -- _unlike_ last time, however, they're well and truly alone.

"I can't see your face." Bane rasps against the side of his neck, pleasure-crazed. "I would _hear_ you instead."

He digs fingers into his hip, hard enough to bruise, and _pulls_ him into his next thrust. Blake yelps sharply and grinds his forehead into the mattress, a last-ditch effort to compose himself that barely lasts a second before he's crying out again. Bane can feel his climax aching up and through him, stuttering his thrusts and blanking his mind into nothingness. His rhythm turns brutal as he chases it.

Then Blake suddenly convulses around him so tight he's _dizzy_ , his alarmed howl dissolving into an almost plaintive whimper as he comes along the blanket in erratic streaks, Bane fucking him straight through it. By the time Bane is groaning through his own release he's loose-limbed and exhausted, only just held halfway up by his firm grip. He just barely remembers to lean off him a little when he slumps forward to catch his breath through his mask, chin hooked over the detective's shoulder.

The muffled activity of people below the floorboards jogs him out of his stunned reverie. Bane wants nothing more than to linger inside him, still eager for that unnatural _closeness_ , but he knows better than to ignore his body's needs. He can already feel his spine complaining from the workout, angry little itches that make him twitch as if shocked. So he pulls out with some reluctance and leans on his elbows to better allow Blake to roll over from under him before slumping on one side. 

He takes in a slow breath and feels along every pleasured, exposed nerve thrumming through his body before it's swept away by the analgesic. Blake pants softly alongside him, the aftershocks of his orgasm twitching through the bed.

"... _Fuck._ " He blows out a sigh -- he's on his back, limp and shiny with sweat, one arm thrown over his eyes. "I'm not walking tomorrow."

Bane closes his eyes, briefly. He can feel the shadows of bruises on his neck and collar, waiting to reveal themselves properly come morning. The bed dips and rises. Blake has rolled over. He opens his eyes just as he moves his mouth along his chest and laps at the sweat that's gathered there. Bane watches appreciatively through hooded eyes as he makes his slow way up to his throat, close enough that he's leaning over him but still leaving enough space for air to sift between their sticky bodies.

"Good...?" He asks. Bane grunts his agreement, letting the exhausted timber to his voice say the rest. It seems to be enough, because Blake's mouth spreads in a loose, crooked grin. "...Good."

The silence grows weighted. He waits through it, knowing the curious man wasn't one to leave questions unasked.

"Will I...ever see your face?" Blake asks after a moment, tentative, as if the question alone is consequential.

"When I am dead."

A soft snort is his reply. Bane studies him, every detail carving itself into his mind like a beloved line in a book -- the sardonic lines that angle around his mouth, the way his hair now tumbles over his brows and almost hides the pleasant exhaustion in his eyes. The sweat that sticks the downy hair to his neck's nape.

"Great pillowtalk, Bane."

While Blake changes the sheets he tosses on his jeans and boots again to go chain his bike, still mostly sheltered from the roof. A quick flick on his mask and analgesic starts to pump tirelessly through the wires, drifting through him much like the snow peppering the air. He returns to find him curled up and rapidly falling asleep on the now clean bed. Bane watches the rise and fall of his back from the doorway, the reality of the night starting to sink in.

"Hey..."

Blake shifts under the blankets, dark hair peering over the mound of blankets.

"...Room enough for two."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You won't take me yet, perfectionism!


	22. Another Place Entirely

Blake glares at his coffee maker when it doesn't start.

He couldn't have more than a cigarette a day now. The last thing he needed was a lack of caffeine to top the miserable twitchiness that was already starting to settle in like a disease. He fiddles with it in the cold light of the kitchen (as well as gives it a few smacks), eventually forcing himself to focus his energy more productively when he considers a morning _without_ coffee. Reaching behind and unplugging it he pulls it apart and immediately spots the problem -- the wires are worn out, crooked at an angle that suggests the machine isn't getting the juice it needs. It's an old thing, a past birthday gift from Reilly, and he can't bear to replace it yet.

He takes a few minutes adjusting it, using his rubber kitchen gloves to avoid an accidental shock as he tweaks the wires individually. A faint _ree-ri ree-ri_ sounds somewhere outside the window -- spring might be closer than he thinks if songbirds are getting this active in the morning. Blake breathes a sigh of relief when he turns it on again and it lets out a weak but consistent _whirr_.

Reaching into the cupboard and pulling out a tin of coffee grounds, he scowls when he peels back the lid and is greeted by air.

_Blake opens his eyes to a cluster of silver. The man even wears it when he's sleeping._

_He had half hoped Bane would take it off and set it to the side. Instead he just climbed into bed after checking his bike and rolled over like nothing happened. He's starting to wonder himself if the mask is more than just for show. The wires look as decorative as they do functional, hooking in and out of the black like thread, and every breath the man takes is accompanied by that almost-mechanical wheezing. There were inner workings, definitely, though for what completely eludes him. A mic to enhance his voice? Maybe he did have a facial injury that would mark him even more than the mask would. Despite his tired stupor the curiosity gnaws at him and he reaches out to graze his fingers along the front._

_The material is far from cheap, further from ordinary. There isn't even the faintest hint of rust, suggesting either a good amount of chromium or some serious upkeep. He's so focused on the handiwork he doesn't notice Bane awake and staring until he speaks._

_"It won't bite."_

_He jerks his hand back. Bane doesn't seem bothered, shifting from where he lays on his side with a soft grunt and observing him with half-lidded eyes. Even naked and tired Blake feels like he just prodded a bear._

_"Sorry." He breathes, trying to focus in the weak light. "I was being creepy."_

_A long, slow breath._

_"Good to know the detective never rests."_

_Blake can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not. Come to think of it, he rarely can. He studies him in the blue haze peeking through the blinds, self-conscious of how close they are. This was the part where he should be cuddling close and talking about the previous night. Then again, Bane wasn't exactly some lonely schmuck from the bar. Anything conventional seemed inappropriate, somehow, which wasn't helped by his own vulnerability the night prior. It's still hard not to feel a little embarrassed at his meltdown. He often felt like things were out of his control, but one thing he didn't do was bawl like a baby in front of people. Shit, he didn't even shed a tear when the guy had him locked up with no hope of escape._

_Well, it happened. The least he could do was ride the wave out, but now he's tongue-tied and he's not even saying anything. Does he kiss him? Snuggle? Bane could go from gentle to lustful to distant in a heartbeat, and that's when he wasn't making him squirm with brutal honesty._

Roundabout and a little strange. Still wasn't quite used to it.

A few voicemails and a cluster of useless e-mails greet him on his phone once he's settled down with a mug of green and black tea. His stomach rumbles plaintively, but he's already starting to grow tense with apprehension and needs to start his day off proper. There's a lot to get done in the week and he's making up lost ground, to boot. He deletes spam and skims through anything that seems remotely important, smiling at a friendly e-mail from Barbara asking him if he'll be visiting for the holidays.

He reads it out loud in her typical candor. "'Just because the city came down with the flu doesn't mean we can't get drunk on eggnog.'" He reads, trying and failing to pitch his voice. "'Don't tell grandpa.'"

_He must have been sleeping right next to the man before, because he starts to shiver from the lack of body heat. Blake shifts a little closer, as tentative as anything, not wanting to inadvertantly screw up something as amazing and nervewracking as Bane sharing his bed._

_"I'm pretty curious..." He admits with a shrug. "...but if it's none of my business I'll back off." Under the blankets the masked man feels like a furnace and he wants nothing more than to curve into him and be held. His throat feels thick when Bane's dark eyes flick up and down, assessing their proximity._

_"Fulfill your end of the bargain first." He eventually says. "Then ask your questions."_

_It takes him a moment to realize what the man's referring to. Their exchange all the way back in his cell from what feels like years ago, that weird little moment where they had temporarily become more than casual enemies over tea and an open fire. It's a good feeling knowing the guy's still curious about him and hasn't grown bored over what's become their second fling._

_"Yeah, fine. It's only fair." He's close enough for their knees to touch now, as much as he wants to make short work of even that minor distance. "I'm a really pissy person who has to put on a smile so people don't avoid me entirely. Your turn."_

_"How glib." Bane responds dryly._

_"Can't be more interesting than yours. Not every day you see someone walk around with a giant muzzle on."_

_His eyes suddenly narrow. "Muzzle."_

_He winces. "That's just what it looks like. Not implying anything..."_

_Bane watches him silently, the space between them as suddenly wide as a chasm._

He's halfway through his mug when his stomach starts hollering at him with the veracity of an elderly man attempting to get kids off his lawn. With a sigh he takes the hint and gets up to start breakfast, acutely feeling Bane's absence and the still-bare feeling of his new apartment. Should he make something for him when he comes back? _If_ he comes back? Now that he thinks about it, he still hadn't seen the guy eat _or_ drink. Maybe he shouldn't tarnish his reputation with instant noodles and toast.

_He's not exactly sure where he rubbed the man wrong, but he does know he wants to apologize for it. Stomach twisting a little he finally throws caution to the wind, taking the initiative and leaning forward to kiss the man's jaw. Bane doesn't move, but he doesn't shove him off like he's halfway fearing. Good. Now for part two._

_"I...didn't want to be alone all the time." He says against the man's skin. "I learned that telling the truth often meant you were friendless, at best. A liability at worst. I'll admit, I was pretty surprised when you said that back there. I thought it was foolproof after a while."_

_Blake can tell he's listening. He takes it as a good sign when he reaches over to move a slow hand across his leg._

_"You know that saying, 'You keep making that face and it'll stick?'" The man shakes his head. "Parents say it to their kids as a way of disciplining them. Give them something a little fantastical to make them stop being rude, like sticking out their tongue or crossing their eyes. Silly stuff kids do." Bane looks a little intrigued by this and he has to hold back an impulsive laugh -- it's not particularly funny now that he knows what he came from. Or rather, what he didn't come from._

_"I took that phrase to heart because I didn't want the pain of dropping the mask and, inevitably, dropping a friend. People didn't like the angry me. Not adults, not kids, not even the counselors paid to deal with it." His breath hitches when the man traces his hand up from thigh to hip. "So I learned what put them at ease and did it until I didn't know how to show the real me anymore. Smiling when I didn't want to. Joking about everything. Keeping shit to myself."_

_"Fissures have started to appear." Bane murmurs, knowingly. "You've grown tired of it."_

_"I really have." He shivers when the man's hand reaches his ass and kneads appreciatively. "Just tired of all the effort, but I do it anyway...never been good at doing what I need to."_

_"What are you afraid of?" Bane asks, moving his other hand to his hip when Blake props himself onto his elbows and leans in, the air between them much different than it was a minute ago._

_"Believe it or not..." He sighs. "...a lot."_

_"Really." He sounds surprised. "That's one thing you hide from me quite well."_

_Blake chuckles. "Are you my barometer?"_

_"I am for most people." He says, tone a little challenging as he moves a finger between his cheeks and strokes him. "Feel free to contest me."_

It clicks when he realizes he has actual groceries to work off of now. It really has been a while since he's cooked for himself -- hectic schedules and what he's realizing is encroaching depression made him more deeply acquainted with Chinese takeout and microwaved coffee than he'd care to admit in polite company. He pulls open a drawer and digs through the produce still leftover from Bane's last visit, mulling over the different recipes he could whip up with a tinge of excitement.

Upon finding a yellow onion and a bag of button mushrooms Blake pulls out his laptop and opens it on the counter, scrolling through the first page results on basic omelette recipes. A thought suddenly occurs to him -- he opens up a new tab and enters 'League Of Shadows' into the search bar. He's immediately met with talk show links and the occasional news article, but what pulls his attention is a lesser-traveled conspiracy theory site buried past the conventional first few pages. One on the League Of Shadows and its mysterious reputation over the decades, cobbled together with a fervor by someone who clearly thought they were onto something good.

He turns on a video and gets to work chopping vegetables, glancing over and making sure not to cut himself in the process.

_No...surrendering to Bane definitely didn't feel so bad._

_There was a strange sense of peace in giving temporary control to someone else, even as a part of his subconscious still railed against the trust he was bestowing this powerful and intimidating man. 'Come on.' He tells his paranoia when Bane slides a finger in him, sending pleasure flickering up his spine. 'The guy might have a thing for me. That's at least a different type of scary.'_

_"Sorry for waking you up." He bites his lip when he strokes him from inside -- he slides up and drapes himself across his broad chest, enjoying the steady rise and fall of his breath. His thick cock bumps against his leg and he moves his thigh against it teasingly. The guy's hard as a rock and he considers vaguely that control wasn't a one-way street._

_"You'll just have to put me back to sleep." Bane purrs, an almost throaty croon that makes Blake's head spin. He leans on his knees, hands on either side of the man's head as he rocks up and down on his fingers. Bane slides against him, matching his movements easily, and it's not long before he's urging more._

_"Over."_

_He obeys (a little eagerly, he notes with some humor) and the man spoons him, warm and heavy and running a hand over his stomach. He missed the feeling of someone's chest against his back, something that cuts so deep in him it nearly takes him out of the moment. Their talk is kicking up all sorts of old concerns he kept sweeping under the rug in light of more immediate obligations -- why he hadn't dated in a while, why he couldn't even work up the nerve for one-night stands anymore. The isolation that chews him up._

_He knows he's coming off as clingy with how he twists to kiss him still, molding against him like a lonely cat. Bane doesn't seem to mind, even as he can't return the gesture, holding him firm against him and sliding his thick cock between his thighs. A silent question._

_"Yes..." Blake sighs, rocking against him. "...but you have to tell me what's up with the mask." A soft snort is his reply, one he can feel ruffle his hair. Bane spreads him out with one large hand and rolls the slick tip against him, prodding gently._

_"I've already agreed, John." The use of his first name sends a tight thrill through his chest. "You can save your bribes."_

_Oh, he remembers. He also remembers the rather detailed threat he gave the guy afterward. If only Blake from a few weeks ago could see him now. The sheer strangeness of his situation makes him a little nervous all of a sudden and he welcomes the distraction of slicking him up, even more so the tense stretch when the man pushes into him. He's still just large enough to make his stomach tighten with instinctive unease, but he's adjusting quickly._

_"I wear it for many reasons." Bane groans against his ear, not quite drowning out his own. "For privacy. For health."_

_A tiny note of pride sings in his mind at the confirmation, though it's all but muffled by the heat filling him up and making him glow all over. He's glad he got the man to talk, because there's something about the pleasured strain of his strange voice that shoots straight to his cock. Every time he speaks it's as if his voice was traveling the length of the world. One accent blending into another._

_"I imagine you drew similar conclusions. How similar..."_

_Another twist of his hips and Blake is almost writhing, leaking helplessly all over the sheets. Every time he comes close, so close he can feel his cock throbbing, the man eases up. Pulls out almost all the way, then slides back in so slow he's grinding his teeth in frustration. Still toying with him. Blake leans into him plaintively, physically begging, and only seems to amuse the bastard._

__

_"For image, still." He continues as he presses his arm beside his head, raw strength evident even in the careful way he curls his fingers around his wrist. "One that works well for sparking imagination...what was it you called it..."_

__

_Blake's breath comes out in tight, agonized pants, trying to push down onto him and unable to budge more than an inch. He might as well be trying to rut against a mountain. In a last-ditch effort he tightens himself around him, a gentle squeezing that draws a sound his frazzled mind can only describe as primal. It's a small and almost painful victory when the guy grips his arm, a bruise he can already feel._

_"A muzzle."_

_He leans in, as deep as he can go. Not enough becomes too much and Blake has to twist again to grind his face against the sheets and muffle an embarrassing whine. He's not thrusting, not quite, simply rocking their bodies together and mercilessly grinding the head of his cock right into his prostate and making him see stars. Bane was too sharp to not know exactly what he wanted, how to get him almost whining with relief with less than a breath. Blake had to work for his secrets and this was one he was all too happy to give up._

_It takes longer for Bane to climax. Blake comes no less than three times. The first has him yelping a little too loud, almost definitely waking up a neighbor. The second has him hitting his head back into his chest and cursing him out. The third...he's not entirely sure he didn't pass out for the third one. When Bane shudders inside him he almost doesn't process it, a contradictory and sweaty mess of numbness and nerves. Everything is a cluster of input in his high -- the dampness of the sheets, the slick trail drying on his thighs. The man's husky whisper against his messy hair as he gulps each breath._

_"I like your anger."_

The onions lay half-cut on the wooden board. Blake watches intently at the images flashing by on the monitor, old newspaper clippings and ancient scripts and brief vignettes from a few decades back mushing together into a visual overload. It would be easy to dismiss it as eager propaganda by a bored part-time news editor, but his mind is already drawing conclusions that wrack him to his core.

Bane talked about an ancient league that found him worthy. While he'd be hesitant to call himself an expert on martial arts, it was more out of respect for the craft rather than lack of trying. He'd studied different fighting forms for _years_ \-- a combination of desperation and genuine curiosity -- though it wasn't until he first glimpsed Batman on the news he felt his interest could actually go somewhere. He'd since been hesitant to give it up, even if it was practicing alone or obsessively studying every video he could get his hands on.

He watches a clip of two fighters dueling in a small room, their age and gender indistinct through the video grime and their heavy clothes. They're a flurry, a whirl of violence chaotic to the casual eye and viciously precise to the trained. It's more than their impressive form which glues him to the screen. He can recognize some of their movements in Bane. Even scarier, he can see some of their movements in _Batman_.

His skin suddenly crawls. He pulls open a drawer and snatches the pistol he keeps there, whirling around and pointing it at the shadow that's appeared in his doorway.

"...Holy _shit_." He didn't even hear him come _in._

"Quite a show." Bane says, amused, eyes curved just so at the corners.

"I could've _shot_ you."

The masked man tilts his head. His arms are crossed, already acting the part of the casual guest even as he still comes off, at best, deeply intimidating.

"If I've learned anything about you, John, is that you're more _hesitant_ to fire."

"Yeah, fine. Maybe knock like a normal person next time, anyway?" He turns and hastily lowers the volume. "I swear you're trying to give me a heart attack."

"It keeps you sharp." The bastard actually sounds _indignant_.

"Keeps my blood pressure through the roof."

"It was quite calm this morning." He responds, a touch smugly. Blake runs a hand through his hair and looks to the side.

It wasn't exactly going to stay that way. Not with the man wearing cargo jeans, rugged boots and a long-sleeved black shirt that hugged every last muscle like a coat of paint. It was hard enough pretending he didn't find him attractive when they first met. Now he _really_ has no excuse not to let his gaze drag down his broad chest and hard stomach to the faint bulge in his jeans. Bane definitely doesn't seem to mind him staring, his casual stance contrasting with a heated gaze that travels up and down with deliberate pauses. Blake turns and hurriedly goes back to working away at his neglected breakfast.

"So, what about yours?" He asks as he starts the stove. "Blood pressure, that is." Bane doesn't respond. It's likely the guy thought he was still asleep when he left. Blake didn't remember much, that much was true. Little more than seeing him stretching stiffly beside the bed, the knotted scar down his spine twitching like a snake and accompanied by the faint wheeze of what sounded like pain. It didn't take a chiropractor to know he had a chronic issue beneath the bluster.

"Just noticed you left. Hope the bed wasn't...uncomfortable or anything." He adds. It's a weak cover-up. The masked man isn't fooled.

"Nothing you should worry about."

Blake holds back a scoff and flips his eggs. Even sharing with him the nature of his brace and mask ( _somewhat_ , anyway) the man was jealously guarded of whatever physical issues he was battling. Maybe it was too much to show he cared. He didn't like to think so. He was the furthest thing from an expert on relationships, but he knew not showing you gave a shit was the surest way to go ass forward.

He chews on his lip at the thought. ' _Don't get ahead of yourself, Blake_.'

Bane continues to stand in the doorway. Blake glances sideways at him. His eyes are flicking back and forth in thought, looking at nothing in particular now.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He says as he pulls out (old but still good) breakfast sausages and doses them into the oil one by one. "Whatever you have, I'm not going to use it against you."

"I have no reason to think so." Bane responds coolly. Anyone else would take it at face value, but he can feel the dismissive arrogance behind his words -- " _You couldn't hurt me if you wanted to_." Blake knows the comment shouldn't sting, not with their interactions still tinged with uncertainty, but it does. The eggs cook quickly and he ignores the still-firm texture of the vegetables when he takes a test bite, sitting down at the table and beckoning him to join him. The man obliges and sits across from him with a soft grunt, draping a shiny, coffee-brown leather coat over the back of the chair.

They play chess while he eats. He likes the delicate way Bane simultaneously plucks a piece and replaces it with his own, somehow ginger despite the thick gloves. It was better than focusing on the fact he was losing again -- to his very paltry credit, not _as_ quickly this time. He manages to stall him, even if it's a transparent maneuver he quickly works around. An occasional glance his way and the man seems unhurried, even distracted with his gaze wandering a little before each move.

"Damn, you're good." He growls around a mouthful of sausage when he takes his king. "You'd wipe the floor with regionals."

"I have little doubt. Strategy is more than a game to me." A flicker of dark humor passes his face as he holds up his queen and observes it in the light. "Though I find it enjoyable regardless."

"Enjoyable?" Blake repeats with a frown. Bane sets up the board again, as quick and efficient as a robot.

"Yes. The wear and tear of fighting and sabotage may threaten to pull a man under, but the results make it something I would not easily replace." He picks up a pawn. "No, I do not find it akin to a fantasy romp." Blake's face grows hot with embarrassment -- clearly his time in law enforcement was still raising his hackles.

The next game is a touch slower, as much to analyze his personal failures as to get the man to linger. It's selfish, he knows, but each little mundane moment paints a bigger picture than he's ever had of him. Someone larger than life temporarily brought back to human by the way he keeps his chin in one hand, slowly tapping the side of his mask with a finger in deliberation during each turn.

There's an old affect to the way he takes things in, like he's seen everything before and is just coming back around to reaffirm what he already knows. Come to think of it, he's not sure how old he is. The skin around the mask is relatively smooth, with the crow's feet that build whenever he smiles the only allusion to the years tucked away other than his crafty, somber eyes. If he raised Talia since she was a kid and she had recently come into adulthood...he was definitely older than him, that much was for sure. Bane catches him staring, raising his eyebrows mildly before pushing a piece across the board with one finger.

Blake takes a deep drink of his now-cold tea and gestures with the mug.

"So, has anyone ever beat you at this game?"

"One."

"Who?"

"Talia."

Well, think of the devil. Somehow that's scarier than her knife to his throat. He rubs his neck in remembrance. Bane glances at him, then looks back to the board.

"Speaking of which. Have you...uh..." How does he phrase it? Captured? Subdued? _Lectured?_ Thankfully the man saves him the trouble.

"She returns in two days. I still await my men's return." His expression flickers, troubled, then relaxes back into his usual cool when he catches his gaze. "As well as your answer."

No use delaying the inevitable. He had a one-of-a-kind, limited-time offer to join the League Of Shadows. Even an attempt to do his homework he was met with _far_ more questions than answers, something that kicked his detective's mind into fervent overdrive. An organization of assassins and martial artists that was apparently behind some of the biggest coups in history. Something that's apparently been around for centuries. A group that Bruce Wayne somehow came into contact with over the eight years he's been active. Then again, it was the Internet. There were stranger things put on the average website on a good day.

"It's a pretty interesting proposal. Been doing some reading on it, though I can't exactly say your, uh, _league_ is pretty forthcoming about what it does. I mean, starting the Black Plague? Sacking Rome? You have quite a few funny rumors floating around. I worked my ass off to get under my superiors' skin and all I got was 'hothead'." The laughter dies in his throat when the man just watches him steadily.

"...You're _kidding_."

"It has a tumultuous past."

"What the _fuck?_ "

Just when he thought things couldn't get any stranger. "You showed no qualms about joining with a force with its roots in silencing dissent from the poor, cultivating warmongering attitudes and even slavecatching." Bane responds, sharply. "I fail to see the foundation for your shock."

"I..." He lets out a hard sigh and looks him in the eye. "No, I know my history. You've got a point. So what's _your_ special reason for getting involved with something this crazy?"

"I originally had no choice."

"So you eventually did."

"Yes."

"And that's different from what I was trying to do _how_...?"

"Because I chose to _kill_ it." Blake stiffens at his blunt tone. "...and succeeded. I would then attempt over the years to revive it from the ground up, a tree laid bare with its upturned roots and its future naught more than a decaying thing. Only when I realized its potential was secure in its best and worst student did I turn away and decide to reinvent it instead."

' _How can you be so frank and still leave me with a thousand questions?_ ', he thinks, feeling a little wild at this metaphorical peek behind the mask. ' _Was Batman a student, too? Your classmate?_ '

"The fanatic and egocentric nature of the League were akin to tumors, each one I cut without regret as I climbed my way to power. You were content to be the omega in a pack that would sooner chew off its own legs than feed its pups. Quite unlike your department, the League Of Shadows had a few elements worth salvaging. The rest, as you have so clearly found out..." He glances at the laptop on the counter. "...is history."

Still rubbing salt in the wound. He tries to sort the flurry of questions in his mind, even as he knows he won't have them all answered over breakfast and chess.

"I mean, Gotham's not the biggest city around. If all that stuff about Rome and London and goodness knows what else is true then why not elsewhere? The world is _literally_ your oyster." Bane's expression quirks. Blake rolls his eyes. "I mean, not _literally_ , literally."

"Change comes from surprising places." He responds enigmatically. "Your little city wields influence far beyond its size. Dwarfs even Metropolis in sheer personality. Host to some of the world's greatest terrors in less than a century. Indeed...why _not_ Gotham."

' _That's pretty convincing, Bane._ ' He thinks. ' _You're still not telling me something. Talia's been here for at least two years, from what I remember looking up. You've been all over the world, but chose to actively stay here, of all places, and carry out this massive social upheaval. You must have a deeper reason than the goodness of your heart_.' He doesn't like the way the man's gaze bores into him, as if reading his very thoughts.

"So if I joined I'd be your subordinate." He starts.

"Of course."

"Taking orders from you."

"Unless you could prove you're fit for different duties."

"You, uh...usually fuck your subordinates?"

"No." He sounds irritated now. "Do you not take this seriously out of fear or has your past conditioning truly blunted you to better?"

Blake opens his mouth, then snaps it shut shamefully. He wants to tell him he's not trying to be disrespectful, but he's not sure how to phrase it in a way that doesn't sound supremely selfish. That whatever _this_ was, he doesn't want it to end yet. Intention isn't magic, he knows, and he takes a few moments to think out his answer before speaking again.

"No, I do. That's why I left. I left because there was too much shit." He fiddles with the tag on his teabag. "Corruption, power grabbing, just nothing I could stay apart of and still have a clean conscience. Following people's orders, good _and_ bad, still had me doing things I shouldn't have been doing. I respect you, Bane. That's more than I can say for a lot of people. But I don't know everything that's going on beneath the surface. That's not good enough. The truth is the goal. It's _always_ the goal. If I want to be a detective, that's what I'm going to have to focus on. No matter how badly..."

He pauses and deliberates over the truths and half-truths swimming to the surface.

"No matter how badly I'd like to join."

Bane sits impassively with his arms folded over the table, fingers knitted together. Even the songbirds outside seem quieter than usual.

"There's a lot I need to do and joining an ancient martial arts organization is still a little low on the list. I need to be with my kids more. I need a better foundation under my feet. One of my own." He can tell Bane appreciates this callback, the crow's feet around his eyes wrinkling in a hidden smile. "It's not a permanent answer. Far from it. But for now..." He holds his gaze. "I'll have to turn you down."

"...I understand."

Blake shakes away the sudden flood of relief. He's not sure why he thought Bane might be pissed or disappointed. Or both. Maybe it's old conditioning rearing its ugly head, like usual. That or Bane composes himself with care and doesn't let a single thing escape when he feels like it, looking as subdued as if he just woke up from a nap.

"What do you plan to do for Gotham in the meantime?" He asks.

It's hard not to smile at that -- he doesn't miss those last three words. "I still want to do my part to create a better world. It's just a matter of figuring out the best way to do it. For now it's the little things that'll have to help. Keeping my orphanage safe. Honing my skills where they'll be appreciated and not squandered. Eating better." Blake cocks one shoulder in a shrug. "You know, little things."

"A noble goal. Let's see what comes of it in the coming weeks." Bane stands up swiftly and pulls on his coat, careful not to disturb the chess pieces before him, then pulls on his helmet and hooks it in place. Blake's throat suddenly grows dry. Was this the part where he asked when they'd hook up next? Does he just straight-up ask him to come back? He figured he would. That's what he _did_. Until he wouldn't, disappearing into the muggy void of Blake's past like everyone always did after a time. He suddenly feels closed off and miserable, stranded on an island of his own insecurity.

"I'm expected." Bane says, as if that sums up their strange evening and morning, and walks to the door. "As are you." He opens the door and without another word walks into the glaring morning sun to get on his bike, shutting it behind him. Blake watches him start the motorcycle from the cracks in the blinds, then rubs his hair. He would get ready for the day and fuss over what he should've done or said later. Dropping his dishes into the sink and putting on another pot of water for tea he goes to find himself an outfit for Amir's art show.

It's two and a half boxes he digs through before he finds some of his older clothes, still fitting his lean frame nicely. It's been a while since he tried to look more than just presentable. Amir at _least_ deserved a guardian that fit the atmosphere visually, if not socially. Shit, that means he'd have to brush up on his art terminology, too. Outside of silent films (which nobody watched anymore) and folk music (which often earned him a sneer or two), he was a bit of a scrub when it came to the arts. He appreciated them, absolutely, but it wouldn't stop him from crumpling under a pop quiz. Snobs loved that shit.

He pauses in the middle of trying on a button-up when he hears a sharp knock on his door.

Bad memories creep up into his mind. Thanks to Miranda (Talia, he reminds himself sourly) he's going to associate the doorbell with thinly-veiled murder and fox fur for the next six and a half months. He pulls the kitchen knife off the table and checks in the peephole, stuffing on his shoes.

He opens the door and frowns curiously up at Bane's towering form.

"...Leave something?"

"Of a sort."

Blake pushes his hands under his arms, shivering at the sudden cold. "What?"

"We need a form of contact."

His chest lurches hopefully.

"Uh, you don't exactly have inhibitions about just showing up. I got at least three heart attacks with your name on it." He can't see the man's face, but he can feel frustration wafting off of him. The joke isn't appreciated. He was beginning to realize the guy had more than one short rope -- somehow this makes him more curious than unnerved. "Whatever you want to say, just say it. We're kind of past the whole strong, silent routine. At least, I think so." He shrugs. "I'm not sure what to call...this."

Bane doesn't seem quite sure either. Not with _that_ generous pause.

"A liaison." He eventually says. "Perhaps."

Blake chuckles in spite of himself. "A liaison it is."

The man pulls a pen and a slip of paper out of his pocket, pressing it against the door above Blake's head and scratching something down. The detective shifts from foot to foot awkwardly between his outstretched arms, trying to ignore the stares of the neighbors chatting on their porch across from him. He was still new here and hadn't any reputation besides 'I think that guy's a cop or something', if gossip at the laundromat was anything to go by. Now he had to add 'hangs out with bikers' to the list.

' _Reputations are tiring_ '. He thinks to himself as Bane writes, breathing in the scent of old leather and fresh smoke. ' _But they can't be helped, can they?_ '

"Is this in case I change my mind?" He asks.

Nothing but the faint honking of cars in the distance and the soft _scritch-scratch_ of the pen against wood and paper. Then...

"I wish to see you again."

He can see his attempt to hold back a smile in the reflection of his helmet. "You...asking me permission?"

"Yes."

There's additional weight in his words, one that has his mind scrambling to find a foothold. Honest. Careful. Perhaps a hint of apology. They got off to a rocky start, which Blake would later reflect upon as the most incredible understatement he's ever made. Now they stood at the crossroads of something more, even as the path could so easily lead to a roadblock, a dead end or somewhere else entirely.

Polite to a fault and presenting it as mundanely as a mailman delivering a package, there's a sincerity to Bane's words that makes his breath a little short. Whatever this was, this liaison, wouldn't be easy. He knows. But he made the decision to stop taking the easy way out and he was going to follow it through, wherever the hell it lead.

He takes the slip of paper, gently catching Bane's fingers in his own and holding his hand firm for a fleeting moment. The man doesn't return the gesture, but he doesn't pull away like he's halfway fearing.

"Yeah." He says with a small smile. "I'd like that."

Blake watches him walk down the stairs and rev down the driveway and out of the complex with a lighter heart, which he still partially attributes to the caffeine. He turns and only now sees the paper on his front door. "I've officially settled in." He snorts to himself, suddenly bursting into laughter and clapping a hand to his forehead as he pulls off his first noise complaint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My notes would be mini-novels in of themselves if I didn't already spend so much extra time writing and editing and writing and editing. I have so many words in my head. Like how much I still love this damn pairing and how it's still destroying me week after week. Don't get me started on the rather funny dreams I've had about them.
> 
> Like Bane fighting a puma. Subconscious, you destroy me.


	23. Gotham Never Sleeps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of child abuse and domestic violence.

Gotham's chill beckons with pale light just outside his window, urging him into action with its usual smug indifference. He swipes a hand across his brow and sorts his bangs into place. Adjusts his cheap suit with a flourish and tries to ignore the scuffing along the sleeves. The daily ritual was a necessity to keep his sanity as well as remind himself of his importance, even when others pretended they didn't see it.

He loathed using the bus, but he wasn't exactly in a position to complain. It was certainly more freedom than the ward afforded him, though he still couldn't say much of the company -- squalling children, rude teenagers and the omnipresent funk of body odor were like sand in his gears, threatening to grind his careful progress to a screeching halt and finish him off. The best minds in Gotham had been his compatriots for years, brilliant environmental scientists and genius architects who had long since earned the privilege of his companionship. Even Ms. Quinzel had been decent to talk to, more for her (enviably, though he'd never admit it) intricate knowledge on the human psyche and _less_ her peculiar sense of humor. She seemed to view everything and every _one_ as a joke, him included, and it was one of the easiest ways to get on his bad side.

Walking into the firm, he thinks about how he would give almost anything to have just _one_ conversation with someone that could keep up.

Greeting everyone at his meager job is a droll affair, but his reputation no longer precedes him. The receptionist at the front desk offers him condolences on his 'sick weekend', which he responds with a false amount of gratitude, and his superior insists he should have had his work done a day earlier regardless. The man was easily threatened by him and it was little surprise why -- he was the typical slovenly middle management, someone who frequently was reminded of his place and took great pains _not_ to take it to heart. He swipes a hand along his brow and adjusts his collar once the man leaves. None of them would know importance if they were literally dipped in gold.  


The work day crawls by with a vengeance, defiant even as he sinks into his work arranging meetings, calling clients and filing insurance information. He pretends to be sympathetic to the thugs and foreigners that make up a notable portion of his clientele, due in large part to Bane's little ongoing coup. Though even he could hardly call it _little_ anymore -- the city hall may be out of commission (he didn't even have the dramatic deaths of former co-workers to look forward to now), but their self-righteous violence had yet to abate. If anything it only made them angrier, resulting in congregations that cropped up around the city like a plague of locusts and took about as much effort to dissipate.

It wounded him to indirectly participate in the slow molding of Gotham from a technological and cultural paradise to a chaotic, grimy, _savage_ landscape more fit for the third world than a hub sharing a sea with Metropolis. The ward had been a physical and emotional barrier from this truth, but now that he was in the thick it was hard not to recall his lavish lifestyle from before. The one he still deserved. He'd deign to rub shoulders with the city's despondent and wretched for now, if only because he was yet to climb out of the pit himself. Once he did...

The main phone rings. He puts on his smoothest candor and rolls preemptive refusals in his mind.

"South Gotham Insurance."

"Good afternoon. May I please speak to Mr. Crane?"

His skin bristles. He peers through the crack in his office door, then glances at the window. There was no way they could have found him. Not when he went through such pains to sink into the fray.

"My apologies. I'm afraid you have the wrong num-"

"There's no need for that." He recognizes her silky smooth voice even before he can recall her name to memory. "You worked with my father a few years ago. I'm here to ask you about your services."

He stands and goes to shut the door to his office, reaching up to adjust his meager collar with a trembling hand.

"You see, I've come across a rather large problem that could use your talents once more..."

\--

"Impressive for his age."

"Kids are a lot more talented than we give them credit for."

Blake shoves his shaking hands in his pocket and puts on a stiff smile for yet another viewer attempting to take a selfie with the painting. His yet-to-be-smoked daily cigarette is hollering at him and he's craving a moment's peace outside, but he was going to stick it out if it killed him. At the rates at which the gallery's primary audience were testing him, it might happen a lot sooner than he thought.

Amir's pretty polite as a rule, but even he's having a hard time keeping his cool under the onslaught of stuffy art critiques and jealous parents. He's sitting in a corner now, nose buried in his sketchbook in the hopes he'll avoid a few more questions in favor of his 'burgeoning artistic career' (an excuse that's worked rather well so far). Blake puts on a grin for everyone that walks by his art corner, as much to ease down his own hackles as to keep Amir calm. He _would_ take extra steps to make sure they went easy on him, but overall people seemed more impressed than critical.

It wasn't hard to see why. He had spent nearly three months on these paintings and Blake couldn't be any prouder. Every time he dropped by Amir would always be working on his craft, hunkered over a spare chunk of concrete and diligently scratching away despite the biting cold. Some of his drawings were quick, little sketches scribbled on the side of St. Swithin's behind a pipe or wooden leaning to spare it from the snow. Sometimes Blake would take a stroll around the building, just to see if there was a hidden gem tucked away out of sight. Others were daily affairs -- abstract portraits on the front sidewalk, the occasional cityscape on walls down the street (if he could get away with it).

Even more increasingly...bats.

Blake strolls past a drawing, lingering momentarily before moving on to the next. It's amazing how much his work captured his personality -- he was straightforward, considered by many to be mature for his age, but was still very much a dreamer. Somehow he found a way to nail Gotham's atmosphere with just a few strokes of chalk, standing out among the other kids without even trying. A friend of Reilly's helped him take some high-quality photos with their camera weeks ago and, before any of them knew it, his work caught the eye of a curator.

"Very minimalist." He hears an older woman say next to him. He nods vaguely, scratching at the insides of his jeans and counting each dot on the surrounding wallpaper to focus his attention. Did the decor _have_ to look like cigarette burns?

"Yeah." He responds mechanically. "He's good at using blank space." She nods in approval and he quietly thanks his impromptu art study on his phone during the bus ride over. A glance over his shoulder and Amir's dark eyes are peeking over his sketchbook -- quiet as he was, he was still curious what people thought of his work.

"I'm an art history teacher myself." She continues, adjusting a handbag that could probably feed an entire neighborhood block. "Master's."

"Yeah?" He didn't recognize her, but he was a self-admitted plebeian. "What school?"

"Gotham University."

"Cool. I have a friend who goes there." It's not an impressive answer, but his well for small talk is starting to run dry.

"Not every day you see such an unconventional medium." She presses, tucking her purse carefully under one arm and leaning forward at what seemed to be his most popular piece -- a black and white rendition of Gotham's clock tower surrounded by a halo of bats, drawn on a plank of wood he found left behind the orphanage.

"Well, chalk is cheap." He has to hold back a chuckle at the pun. She doesn't appreciate it, instead looking him up and down and sniffing.

"You mean chalk pastel?"

"...Yeah."

"Soft or oil?"

He's tempted to bring Amir over to answer -- it'd be good practice for future showings -- but the lady's already grating on his nerves and he'd feel like a prick shoving her off on him. It's been nearly four hours and he's seen the crash and burn of an introvert right before his very eyes, with visitors either grilling the boy on his art history (which he addressed with impressive accuracy) _or_ patronizing him with questions more suited to a five year-old than an eleven year-old (which neither of them appreciated in the least). He deserved a break.

"Dry. I mean, soft. I'll ask if he'll get into oils, though."

"Are you his parent?"

"Guardian."

Her thin eyebrows raise predictably. Most of the Swithin's boys were used to such reactions (only three had regular contact with biological family members), which makes him wonder how they _would_ eventually handle an additional parental presence in their lives. Reilly may have stopped asking him about his dating success (or lack thereof), but he would occasionally sneak in a benign question about his social life. He could see the logic -- another adult regularly involved in the orphanage's comings and goings would be good for everyone involved.

With a start he imagines him and Bane jogging through the park downtown in the fashion of a wellness commercial, Joel swinging from their outstretched hands. She gives him a look that's more than a little affronted when he starts snickering uncontrollably and he has to assure her he's not laughing at her expense.

They go back and forth over his work, as much as he can both out of his element and feeling rather soured by her judgmental jibes. What seems to be her husband _finally_ walks over and hooks an arm in hers, nodding at the wall. "Not everyday you get chalk doodles at La Montagne. Most kids here are taking oil painting lessons." He laughs heartily. "Points for creativity, right?"

' _What, the ones only snobs like you can afford?_ ' His skin is seriously starting to itch now. ' _Luckily for him, money doesn't buy talent_.' "I mean, the best art is the most honest kind, right?" He responds cheerfully. "I'd say he's way ahead of the game."

They visibly shape up at someone over his shoulder. Blake turns just in time to see Barbara walk up in a sharp pencil skirt and thick sweater, messy up-do suggesting she's either going to class or taking a break in-between. "He really is. I could see him headlining at the Gotham Gallery in a few years' time."

"Barbara Gordon?" The lady asks with a gasp. "I didn't know you were involved in _art_ , too!" Blake doesn't miss the almost accusatory glance his way, as if he were obligated to detail all of his contacts at the drop of a hat.

He stands to the side gratefully as Barbara gradually titters and preens the couple away with societal niceties and humble-bragging. Being the granddaughter of the city's Commissioner and a borderline child genius had its way of making people fall in line, even if it was only to preserve their own self-image. "Where's Reilly?" She asks once they're out of earshot. "He must be _beside_ himself right now."

"Oh, he's sick. Came down with the flu. It's a shame, he really wanted to go." Blake gives her his best pout when she frowns sympathetically. "Now _I_ have to make the famous Reilly soup." Amir moves his hand below his neck as surreptitiously as possible from where he's sitting, earning a snicker from Barbara.

"Oh, come on! He can't be that bad." Amir stifles a laugh and she looks to Blake, scandalized.

"Yeah, I'm a little out of practice." He admits. "I'm gonna have to consult the book. Gonna be cooking for the boys tonight, too."

"Well, on the upside that'll be good practice for the cutie you met." He gives her a curious look and she holds up her hands. "Sorry! Reilly told me you're apparently seeing someone."

"Well, I must be real special if Reilly's making _me_ the subject of his gossip now." He snorts. "Normally he sticks to tabloid conspiracy theories and the daily news."

"So...you're _not_ confirming because you _are_ seeing someone...?" She presses slyly. If Gothamite's loved anything more than sports and the ocean, it was good gossip. He puts an arm around her shoulder as if to whisper in her ear. She leans forward eagerly.

"Really? Amir's event is today and you're talking about me _maybe_ dating?"

She scoffs and shoves him away. "Using the kid to dodge an honest question. That's _low_."

He grins. "It's true."

Amir gets up and walks over to them, clearly eager for familiar company. Barbara gives him a tight hug and gestures to the photos on the wall. "I can't believe you did all this, Amir. You honestly put my Creative Drawing teacher to shame."

"Thanks." He mumbles with a shy smile. "It's just stuff I did after school."

"Really? You have a better work ethic than most people I know." She pats his shoulder. "Don't work too hard, though. You're still a kid."

Blake makes a face from where he's leaning on the wall. "Coming from the nineteen year-old at Gotham's most prestigious university?"

She sticks her tongue out where Amir can't see. "That makes it all the more viable. Also, I'll be twenty in a month."

"So, a hypocrite for another month."

"Eat me."

One of the adult visitors has what seems to be their daughter in tow, her pudgy face in a stern pout over some little feud. They're not-so-subtly directing her to where Amir is standing in an attempt to get them to interact. Amir gives him a helpless look and Blake encourages him to chat with an artist his own age, if only for a few minutes. He moves with Barbara over to the window to talk below the hubbub while the boy slinks over and attempts to make nice.

"Seriously, though...you doing all right?" He asks as he politely accepts a drink from one of the waiters. "That's a lot to have on your plate. Especially with the Commissi..." He pauses. "... _Gordon_ getting cracked down on."

"It really got to him. He's been in the force for over thirty years, but I've never seen him like this." She sighs. "When... _he_...outed him..." She doesn't need to namedrop Bane -- the absence of his name in polite company was practically a title in of itself. "...he all but shut himself away outside of work. He's always been a workaholic, but I actually found him asleep in the car when he came to visit on Saturday. Wouldn't answer me when I asked if he nodded off while driving."

A pang of concern runs through him. "I still can't believe he did that." She continues. "He's always been such a straight arrow. Seems like something Foley would've done, if I'm being honest." She glances at him. "You think...someone else could have put him up to it?"

Blake frowns. "I know you don't want to believe your grandfather screwed over a bunch of people with his good intentions. I didn't want to, either."

"He just wanted to give Gotham a hero."

"And we ended up with the completely wrong one." He downs the rest of his drink and tosses it in the garbage. "A psychopath who got caught blowing people up and attempting to murder children while the one we _thought_ was on our side vanished and brought _more_ questions in his absence. Batman thought it was worth keeping people locked up under a false act to keep a murderer and the Commissioner in good standing. We've seen how well that's worked out."

Barbara twists the hem of her sweater uncertainly. Sometimes it startles him how young she is. "Gordon is an exception to the rule and even he winds up doing some messed up shit." He finishes. "You don't need to be a bad person to do bad things."

"No..." She says after a moment. "...I suppose not."

"I wasn't just teasing back there." He puts a hand on her shoulder. "You've got enough on your plate without taking on his problems, too." He can tell it's not something she plans on internalizing anytime soon. Not with the doubt still quirking her mouth.

Amir drifts back over to them with high-pitched chatter at his back, looking thoroughly worn out. Blake puts an arm around his shoulders and gives him a gentle shake. "You doing all right?" The boy shrugs affectedly, though his eyes suggest he's anything but. He takes him to a bench just outside the gallery door and lets him sort through his thoughts, breathing in the cold air that greets them.

"The other kids are saying...Batman was just a crazy man in a suit." Amir starts. "That I'm also crazy for using his symbolism in my work." He lets out a frustrated sigh and scuffs his shoe on the sidewalk. "They wouldn't say that if they knew what he did."

Barbara and Blake sit on either side of him, exchanging knowing looks.

"The curator asked me why Batman's an inspiration in my work. You know, for my artist statement. I told him that I thought he was amazing. That maybe..." He looks a little embarrassed. "...maybe if we all showed we still cared, somehow, it'd bring him back. He didn't think it was weird, but I guess they did." Blake holds back a chuckle when he mutters, "I hate kids."

"It's not silly at all." Barbara says, a heated look in her eyes. "You're keeping an ideal alive through your work. That's important." She looks at Blake. "Right?"

An ideal. It's what set people apart from one another -- what they did, or what they _didn't_ , stand for. He thinks of what Bruce Wayne told him during that chance car ride from what seemed like eons ago. How he had allowed him a glimpse behind his mask only to encourage him to keep his own. Gordon's attempted pushback in a toxic system that got more poisonous by the day. Bane and his ongoing, bloody campaign for justice. The ground beneath his feet feels floaty and it takes a great effort to ground himself in the moment.

"She's not wrong..." He starts, choosing his words carefully. "...just make sure that, whatever you choose to stand for, you go all the way."

Barbara gives him a smirk and he rolls his eyes. Amir nods in understanding, fiddling with the worn pages of his book. They sit together in silence for a few minutes, watching cars inch by on the downtown street and people mill together back and forth on the sidewalk.

"If Batman doesn't come back..." Amir suddenly says, looking over his shoulder at the drawings coating the walls inside as if somehow they hold the answer. "...do you think anyone will take his place?"

\--

They wind up leaving the showing a little early, partially out of sympathy for Amir and partially because he's already short on time. Barbara tells him to take it easy as she hoists her book bag over her shoulders and steps onto the intercity bus back to the University, though not before Blake pushes a $20 in her pocket and tells her to stock up on mochas.

Thanks to Bane's donation he and Amir only need to visit one store to get the food they'll need for the night's dinner. Whether or not _he_ would actually show up for dinner was anyone's guess -- the man's schedule was tight as a jar lid and Blake knew better than to take his overnight stay for granted. Still, he wanted him to be more than a sporadic addition to his life. He reassures himself the occasional casual invite through text wasn't as silly as it looked.

Shopping isn't like it used to be. He has to submit to a full-body patdown before he's allowed to browse the fruit section (blueberries for Joel, anything bursting with vitamin C for Reilly), his bag held at the door for good measure. He can't help but feel like he's bringing home spoils from an expedition when he kicks open the door to St. Swithin's and announces his return. The boys dutifully relieve him of his bags, save for Tiya who tries to sneak away one of the tomatoes.

"Hey!" Blake says as best he can with his vision obscured by lettuce leaves. "Don't spoil your appetite."

Reilly is sick as a dog upstairs, cutting a rather silly figure when he tries to compose himself in an old sweater and slacks. "Make sure Tiya takes his medication..." He mutters groggily. "...and tell Finn not to stay outside too long or he'll get a damned cold, too..." Blake promptly turns him from the doorway and marches him back to bed, assuring him the place won't burn down while he's in charge. What he _doesn't_ tell him is how _he's_ burning out and fast. Training in the morning, job-searching, the art show, driving _and_ shopping has him exhausted and it's all he can do not to show it when he goes downstairs.

"I'll make us something nice in a bit." He calls out when he jogs back downstairs. "I'm going to grab thirty. Don't let me oversleep, okay?" He places a solemn hand on Amir's shoulder. "You're my alarm clock."

He gives him a hearty salute. "I won't let you down."

Blake's hardly kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the couch before he's out like a light, even as he desperately wills his body not to get too comfortable. Nearly twenty years in St. Swithin's and there was a sense of peace he didn't get anywhere else. He breathes in the familiar scent of the living room and flits peacefully between half-dreams and memories as musty and soft as the blanket one of the boys tosses over him.

Scattered dreams of hallways, of houses. Familiar voices and ones he no longer remembers pitching out of each door he passes. He can hear his mother in one of them. Calling to him for help changing a light bulb. He lets himself pad through endless hallways with a ball of light cradled in one hand, a scene frozen in dream-time, and assures himself he'll eventually turn the right corner and see her. See the way her cheeks crinkle whenever she smiles, even though she always hated the way her age showed.

It's only when he hears a voice that doesn't belong to her or old friends or the kids does he jerk into wakefulness.

"Where'd you learn how to make that?" He hears Emanuel say down the hall.

"Morocco." A melodic voice responds.

"Woah, you've been to _Africa?_ "

Who the _hell_...? He bolts to his feet and runs to the kitchen, hand on his pistol, only to freeze in place at the sight of Bane cooking with the boys. The masked man turns and waves a bright orange hand.

"Good of you to join us."

Blake has to blink the scene into coherency. Steam from multiple pots swaths the entire kitchen in a warm fog, the boys camping or leaning in their favorite spots -- Tiya as close to the food as possible, Jay lounging with his feet on the table (which he immediately drops at the sight of him), Amir hovering in the background. His eyes water from the spices drifting in the air, untrained nose still picking out the strong scent of curry among onions, tomatoes and something sweet he can't name.

"Yay! Blake's awake!" He hears Joel well before he sees him, staggering a little when the boy jumps out of the steam cloud and hugs him around his waist.

"Behnam's a real good cook." Tiya says from where he's refilling his glass of water. "Barely let me sample anything, though..."

"Behna...?" Blake starts to say, only to pause. "Oh, yeah. He's a great...actually, I've never had his cooking before." He struggles to sort through the mixture of paranoia and relief swimming up to the surface now that he's awake. Bane's helmet is still on and his riding jacket is draped over one of the dining room chairs, sleeves rolled up halfway as he neatly chops up garlic on one of the cutting boards. Every time he thought he was starting to get a handle on the guy he'd throw him for another loop. He didn't think he'd actually drop by on an actual _invitation_ , much less start cooking.

"Did you...get everything?" He runs a hand through his hair, feeling extremely silly and out-of-place.

"Sadly, the parsley has gone missing." He says cordially, gesturing to the boys. "They, however, have been incredibly helpful."

"How long have I been out?"

"Two hours." Blake groans. Amir tries to hide his face behind his sketchbook.

"Don't blame him." Bane says as he pushes minced garlic into one of the pots. "I told him not to disturb you."

"Of course not." He gives Amir a smile when the boy peeks over the pages, taking a step into the kitchen. "Anything I can do to help?"

"It is nearly done."

"Has Reilly eaten?"

"Yes."

"Oh." He's grateful, yes, and disappointed all the same. He'd promised to finally spend some quality time with _all_ of them and he just had to be done in by a nap. Bane seems to notice his silence, looking at him briefly before turning on the faucet to rinse the orange from his hands.

"The finishing touch has not been applied yet." He pauses to search for the right word. "...Dessert."

"The finishing..." _Oh!_ He walks in and tugs open the pantry, grabbing the box of blueberry muffin mix. Joel squirms excitedly when he pulls out the blueberries, reaching out for them and immediately pouting when Blake holds it out of reach. "Hold on. Let me set everything up for you."

Bane steps to one side to let him take over, meticulously wiping his hands off with a rag. Sleeves still up (and showing off his arms rather nicely), he moves behind him and leans one hand on the counter to watch him work. Blake's face grows hot when he feels the eyes of the boys on them.

' _And so turns the rumor mill_.' He thinks wryly, even as his chest grows warm from Bane's quiet attention. It takes him a minute to find everything and he debates whether or not Joel should use the electric whisk or manual. He rinses off the cutting board, careful to ever so gently brush his ass against the man's crotch when he sets it on the stand to dry. He can just hear Bane's breath grow hoarse under the helmet -- check and _mate_.

"Sleep well?" Bane asks, voice just a little husky.

Blake swallows hard when the man leans forward a little, a warm and solid weight just behind him, and slides his other hand down his side to where his tattoo is. He should _probably_ be more subtle considering the company, but Bane is _here_ and cooking for his kids and ruggedly handsome and he's not quite sure if he's still snoozing on the couch and dreaming all this up.

"Fantastic."

Bane's presence is always encompassing, even when he's doing something as simple as standing in the kitchen and watching him cook. Something heavy like the moments before a storm, weighted and consequential and just a little too vague to pin down. It's unnerving, even now, something he either couldn't hide (what with his hulking size) or didn't care to. The boys could sense it, too, pretending to be busy yet looking over to them with barely constrained fascination (except for Jay who blatantly gawks from where he sits on the couch with Tiya).

Blake wonders what they'd think if they knew he was the reason he vanished in the first place.

' _Then again, he held me hostage specifically so I wouldn't act out my orders._ ' He thinks as he rinses off their largest bowl. ' _Guess that makes me the reason._ ' He's not sure the boys would be so forgiving. Not when it was their big brother in question. It was hard to fault them, especially since he always tried to keep the nastier aspects of his job hush-hush so they wouldn't have yet more to worry about. They'd have little reason to think he'd be part of _any_ problem. Which was, in of itself...a problem.

"Banen, watch me, okay?"

"It's Behna-" He starts, only for Bane to stop him.

"It's fine."

He can't figure out the man's strange tone, but he doesn't object. Only Amir seems to be visibly concerned, constantly looking over at Bane while he sets the table. Even when Blake raises his eyebrows at him to speak his mind he simply goes into the living room and hunkers over his sketchbook again. The counter is now finished for Joel, who had been bouncing impatiently on his feet all the while and insistently showing off his clean hands.

"You're all set." He says, chuckling when he scrambles up the stool and dumps the mix into the bowl. Bane stands silently behind him, not moving or offering any commentary. It's startlingly domestic, something that makes him wish so _badly_ he could see the man's eyes. What, exactly, he thought of something like this. Only the omnipresent hand on his hip and the calm rise and fall of his chest against his back gives him any clue.

"...I think that was the opposite of a heart attack." Blake says eventually. "Not sure if there's a term for that."

"You seemed startled enough."

"Well...a little. You didn't actually _tell_ me yes."

"I don't make promises I can't keep."

Hell if that wasn't the truth. He's feeling a little giddy from it all and wants to give the man a kiss, but he's all but covered head to toe. So instead he just leans back against his chest and looks up at him. "Well...thanks for stopping by and making us vegetable curry out of the blue." Now that his senses had acclimated the food smelled _incredible_ and his stomach was making no bones about announcing it to everyone in the kitchen. Joel giggles each time it grumbles, though his attention remains fixed on the blueberry mix.

He wonders if Bane ever cooked for his daughter like this. He pushes away the thought -- he didn't want to sully his fantasy yet. As if summoned Finn walks in and asks nervously about the best way to get nails out of tire without adding further damage. Blake glances up to Bane with a suggestive look -- what he _doesn't_ do is reprimand the kid for driving illegally, not when the evening is going so well. He makes it clear with a raise of his eyebrows it's a talk they'll have later, however, which Finn pretends he doesn't see.

"He talks funny." Tiya remarks when the door shuts behind them. Jay nods in assent -- Blake signs for him _not_ to take Tiya's behavior at face value, then points to the kid in question.

"You: be nice."

"But I like it. He sounds like a weird teacher." He scrunches his face. " _Is_ he a teacher? 'Cause..."

"No, he's not a teacher." He frowns. "Well...sort of."

"Blake? Blake?" Joel says, suddenly agitated. "Book says it needs mar...marger..." He struggles to sound it out. "It looks like butter. Do we have this?"

Damn. He must have left it in the car. Blake tells him to hold tight and jogs outside, Tiya still calling out questions from inside the house.

"So where'd you meet him?"

"That's a long story!" He yells as he unlocks the door. ' _It was supposed to be a normal day. Then Gordon vanished._ '

"Is he... _you know_..."

"That's pretty vague, Tiya!" Nothing on the passenger seat. ' _Shit, I don't know. There's so much I still don't know about him, much less that._ '

"Where'd you meet him? Jay asked this question, not me."

"Gotham!" He pushes through trash on the bottom seat. A spare cigarette? He wonders if it's still good, crumpled as it is. ' _In a storm drain.'_

"What's he do for a living?"

"He freelances. Is this twenty questions, Tiya?" ' _Mercenary. Assassin. A damn good cook._ '

"You like him?"

"I don't make a habit of inviting people I hate to dinner!" ' _I'm...'_

"Will he come over more often?"

' _I shouldn't make promises I can't keep._ '

Tiya finally goes quiet. He was likely distracted rather than bored, but he thanks his rare good luck regardless. He finally finds the stick of margarine on the car floor, still cold, and does one last once-over to make sure he didn't drop anything else. A sudden cry from inside jerks him upward, hitting the back of his head on the car roof.

' _Fuck!_ ' He slams the car door shut and runs into the kitchen to see Joel standing over the spilled mixture.

"I dropped it..." Tears roll down his cheeks.

"I _tried_ to tell him not to pick it up. It's too heavy." Tiya says with a huff, though he's bouncing on the heels of his feet guiltily. Joel starts to cry at that and Blake throws him a sharp look before giving his sore head one last rub and leaning down to the boy's level -- it must've been a hard trip, as he's covered head to toe in blue.

"Hey, it's fine. We can make another-" He starts.

"I don't wanna. I wanna stop. I don't wanna."

He sees Bane pause in the doorway out of the corner of his eye, Finn frowning sympathetically beside him. Blake keeps his attention on Joel, now attempting to rub his eyes with flour-covered hands. "No, don't do that. That'll sting. Here, let's wash you off." He picks him up, careful not to slip on the goopy mess, and heads straight to the bathroom. He eschews the sink and goes straight for the tub, fiddling with the knobs for an ideal temperature while Joel quietly peels off his shirt.

He's disappointed and embarrassed, back pointedly to the door as warm water fills up the tub. Blake sighs and rinses off his hands in the flow, keeping the stopper off half-way to let the grime drain. "They can't all be winners, Joel. We'll try again another time, all right?" The boy doesn't meet his eyes, halfheartedly wringing a bar of soap in his hands. Blake softens his voice as he lathers the flour out of his hair. "The batter looked amazing."

Progress didn't come in a day. He was starting to internalize that wisdom now more more than ever. He thinks about the near-silent boy he met at the domestic violence shelter months ago. How he didn't even feel comfortable sharing his feelings beyond one-word answers, much less crying in front of others, even though the papers Blake was given told him he had more than enough reasons to.

"I didn't mean to." Joel mumbles, closing his eyes when Blake fills a cup with water and rinses the shampoo out of his hair.

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

He can hear the gentle _clink_ ing of dishes outside the door. The boys must be cleaning up the rest of the mess. Joel suddenly stands and hugs his neck tightly, slipping a little in the water. Blake hooks an arm around his shoulders and holds him close, ignoring the dampness soaking into his shirt.

"You're okay."

\--

It's been years since he's been surrounded by so many children.

Yes, he and his men had their occasional encounters with child soldiers and orphans during their travels. Kids not unlike the St. Swithin's boys, bonded together through circumstance and hardship. Even then, taking _care_ of children outside of Talia had never been his jurisdiction -- Barsad was far more inclined to family dynamics than him, his past experience as both a husband and a father better preparing him for their emotional demands.

Talia alone had required an incredible amount of his energy, both physical and mental. She had been one girl -- staring at all the boys before him, he finds it no small wonder how John manages.

His first visit had been a brief introduction. The second had been just a touch longer, if only to acquaint him with the Father that oversaw the organization. Now he was suddenly in the thick of these boys' daily lives and finding himself both fascinated and deeply cautious. Judging by their eager greetings and wide berths, they felt very much the same. 

"Who'd win in a fight, you or Blake?" One of the children asked when he took off his coat and hung it by the door, a gawky little brown boy with a flurry of curly hair that always fell in his eyes. One of their peers had smacked them in the arm at that, though it did little to dissuade him.

"Fights take on many forms." Bane had answered, as easy as it would be to give him a more straightforward response. ' _I won our battles, yes, but I'm afraid the war is in John's favor_.'

"A fist fight!"

"Oh, geez. It's _always_ a fist fight. Tiya watches too many movies." His peer said, apologetically, attempting to collect his sibling with the grace of someone a few years older. He later learns the boy's name is Finn, who soon disappears somewhere out back when he realizes Bane is staying awhile and can fill in as a mature presence. The masked man had walked through the old and cramped building (Joel trailing close behind), acquainting himself with its little details.

Antique furniture clashed inelegantly with modern replacements. Everything creaked, above and below, and voices quivered through the halls. Drawings covered much of the walls -- he thought back to the sketch he had seen in John's room, a child's rendition of the man with black bat wings. The metaphor wasn't lost on him.

He eventually found John laying on a sofa in the living room with his back to the entryway, curled up and sleeping deeply under a fluffy pink blanket. Watching the rise and fall of his back had him feeling a rare pang of regret -- he would never feel guilt over what he did to the man, not with the knowledge he had worked with at the time, but memories of him coughing up water and clutching his dislocated shoulder weren't ones he'd look back on fondly.

The pallid note of his skin deep in the storm drains, the warm sheen of his bare back in a heap of blankets in his apartment...it had made for strange deja vu. The detective somehow managed to reach in and shake him without even touching him. It made him realize he shouldn't be here. Bane's fighting instinct could pick up on the the tentative energy of the place like electricity, the hard-won camaraderie that fought to make itself known through the peeling walls and creaking floorboards. It wasn't a place for people like him. Even then...

" _You said you want to save Gotham, right?_ "

"We're having dinner soon." A boy named Amir had quietly told him from a corner of the room. "You're welcome to stay if you like."

" _This is Gotham_."

Joel had asked to be picked up again during his meditative silence and he had obliged, perching him on his shoulder and letting him curiously feel his helmet. Other boys had begun to cluster around him at that, tentatively feeling for purchase around a mostly-stranger, and it was hard for Bane not to feel suddenly, viciously protective. The future was something he fought for and children were a living embodiment of the concept...and yet, he had hardly come into contact with any since he first made his home beneath Gotham.

"You ride bikes?" Joel piped over his head. "Is it scary?"

Amir had walked over and had attempted to shake John awake. The man was clearly exhausted, hardly budging and simply rolling over to press his face against the back of the sofa.

"Let him rest." Bane had said.

"Really? He said only thirty minutes."

"He's a stubborn man. I doubt he would sleep at all if he could help it." The boy had fidgeted in disappointment, prompting him to then ask, "Why thirty?"

"He was going to make dinner."

"Allow me."

Their excitement had been palpable. The boys immediately started looking to one another, grinning eagerly at this new development, and moving into positions around him. Their discipline is scattered yet sincere (another sign of the detective's influence, he thinks), handing him utensils and pulling out vegetables and giving orders to one another like a flurry of songbirds. Despite them snickering and joking and barely keeping their voices down to a murmur, John simply yawned and slept on.

He learned a great deal about the St. Swithin's boys, categorizing their traits as he would notes in a book. Tiya was arrogant and full of life, as quick to exasperate his peers as to make them laugh. Amir was mature for his age, calm and eager to help even as he kept to the outside of the group. Saroo, Jay, Christopher, Jae-Sun, Tim, Jai, Emanuel, Jamal, his already impressive memory has no issue finding a space for each of them. Joel, the youngest as far as he could see, still seems enamored -- even setting him down he drifted around him like snow, never wandering far.

At one point he pat him on the leg for his attention, a move apparently considered bold by the others judging by their gaping mouths.

"Blake said he's gonna make muffins with me today." The tiny boy carried a book with him, all but choking with makeshift bookmarks. "Is he gonna wake up soon?"

"Yes." A roll of his sleeves and old memories had threatened to make themselves known again. "Until then, tell me about your project."

Joel had bolted off at that, returning with a stool and setting it beside him. Even on his toes he couldn't reach his shoulder, but the added height seemed to give him fire.

"I wanna be a cook someday, but I can't even make bread." He could see some of John in the way he pursed his lips in consternation. "It's sad."

"I can't make anything!" Tiya yelled from the hallway.

"You can make messes." Amir muttered in response.

Their amiable chatter soon filled his periphery, the redundant task of chopping vegetables and mixing spices calming his senses in a unique, mundane way. John had rushed to the doorway right as he was finishing up, hand on his holster and a protective spark in his eyes. There was something to be said about their growing trust that he calmed down immediately at the sight of him, potential wrath softening to something almost shy. Their contact came slow and tentative as dinner simmered, figuring each other out in the new environment.

An illusion of a normal life it had been, at best, but he'd still savored the tender way John leaned his back against his chest and murmured questions.

He had been hesitant to separate from the man, then, but it was clear the detective wanted him to get to know the boys. So he followed one of the eldest outside to help with their spiked tires. Finn clearly adored his car -- he treated it with the reverence a king would their treasury -- yet showed no hesitance in letting Bane tend to it. If anything he seemed to catch onto his experience quickly, leaning elbows on his knees and watching him with rapt attention. It was a slow task, but Bane appreciated the new quiet.

"Dang. You really know your stuff." Finn says with a low whistle. "I, uh, saw your bike outside. Never seen a model like that."

"Custom." Bane replies as he patches the hole, careful not to overfill it. He tosses another nail into the growing pile -- wherever the boy had gone, it was somewhere isolated and poorly tended to.

"How long have you been riding?" Finn asks, pushing his hair out of his eyes. They proceed to widen when Bane gives him an estimate that's likely older than he is. He can see a dozen questions spreading across his face, but he instead proceeds to watch him in silence, until a sharp cry cuts through the still and causes them both to spring to their feet.

The muffin batter and bowl are on the floor when they return inside. Bane can already see trauma in the way Joel quivers, how nervously his eyes dart back and forth from the mess to John and back as if expecting a harsh punishment. He has no reason to think the detective would mistreat his children, so it be something from the boy's short past. Without hesitation John plucks him from the ground and vanishes down the hallway, leaving him with his fickle thoughts.

It's hard not to think of Talia. How severely she would hold herself after a flub, how insistent she would be on cleaning everything herself and pretending it never happened. A harsh reaction from a harsh kid in a harsh world. Joel, on the other hand, was still soft. Hurt, yes, but soft from youth and a gentle environment. Judging by the tender way everyone treated him, they wanted him to keep that as long as possible.

"Oh, that's not good." Finn sighs, digging around in one of the drawers. "He'd been looking forward to that for _weeks_."

Bane doesn't speak, listening to the cascade of water somewhere down the hall. The teenager leans down and starts to work.

"So...how long have you known Blake?" Finn asks as scrubs the worst from the floor, giving the food on the stove top an appreciative sniff when he rises to rinse off the rag. "He doesn't bring a lot of people over, but I always figured it's 'cause he's too busy partying without us."

"Not long." Small talk is something he has to pull out of the dusty recesses of his mind. "You two seem close."

The kid rolls his eyes to the ceiling in thought. "Well, I've known him for a few years. Haven't been here as long as the other kids, actually." There's something akin to shame in his voice.

"So you share something in common." Bane offers.

"...Yeah." He says, seeming a little surprised at this answer. "Yeah, we do." It sparks something in him, because he quickly wipes off his hands and turns to him with his voice lowered.

"Are you two..." Finn pauses deliberately, waiting for him to finish. Bane simply stares at him. John walks back out, the front of his shirt damp and a few white puffs of soap clinging to his hair.

"Hey, sorry about that." He says. "Finn, could you grab me a mop? Just gonna make sure the floor doesn't get sticky."

Finn turns on his heel and sulks out of the kitchen with a frustrated mutter. The detective watches him leave, bewildered. "What...?" He turns to Bane, squinting as if to peer through his helmet. "Did you say something weird?" Confronting their little dalliance wasn't quite in the cards. Not yet, with so much already on his mind. So he stays quiet and starts to pull out plates for dinner, choosing instead to enjoy John's subtle irritation, his sharp mind no doubt piecing together evidence and coming to a conclusion regardless.

Overwhelmed is not a familiar word in Bane's vocabulary, but something of the sort makes him tense uncharacteristically during dinner. His subconscious sings to him, distantly, that it's because he's out of his element and starting to feel the weight of the children's expectations. Endless chatter is one thing, but they seem intent on pulling him apart piece-by-piece even as they eat and yammer amongst themselves. John attempts to talk them down in-between bites, though otherwise seems unbothered.

"Why aren't you eating?" Tiya asks over his bowl. The other boys shoot their peer meaningful looks (particularly Amir, furrowing his thick brows together in warning), though he doesn't seem to notice. The masked man considers how to present himself, then slowly folds his arms across the table. Even this simple motion has him second-guessing. He doesn't like it.

"I'm not hungry." He responds, simply.

"Why'd you make so much and not have any?" Tiya pushes. "You're, like, _really_ tall."

"You're all growing."

"Do you ever take the helmet off?"

"Yes."

A few more boys he hadn't met mill through the door, backpacks slung over their shoulders and the cold from outside seeping off them. John gets up and hugs them when they round the table his way, talking animatedly even as he reaches to his plate and eats between comments. Their curious looks and mutters soon clutter the room -- even the knowledge they were enjoying the meal couldn't put a damper on the itching impatience settling in his bones.

"Are you Behnem?" One of the new boys asks, curved eyes squinting a little at his visor. He's nudged by a lanky, dark-skinned boy ("Beh _nam_ , it's Behnam.") and he corrects himself hastily.

"Yes." Bane responds, only to twitch when a flurry of questions erupt at this simple answer. He's heard packs of jackals with more subtlety. John raises one hand and bobs it up and down in an attempt to lower the volume.

"Finn says you have a sick bike." Says one.

"How'd you get wrapped up with _Blake_?" Says another, laughing quickly at John's mock-mortified expression. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding."

"You should take your helmet off now!" Tiya says. "Since we're all here!"

Bane's temper frays.

" _No_."

The room goes very quiet. He can already tell he was too harsh, from the way Tiya goes from curious to mortified to how the boys glance to one another. Joel peeks shyly into the room, wearing a clean shirt and his hair in a towel. A few murmured apologies follow, cautious little words that make him feel just shy of despicable.

John leans over and mutters in his ear, "Why don't we get some fresh air." He gathers his plate and nudges the chair toward the table before heading up the stairs. Bane follows him silently.

He doesn't go out to the porch like he's expecting, instead traveling up the multiple stories and going through the uppermost floor onto the roof. A few chairs and a dusty blanked are folded against the side wall. He tries to pat the excess flour out of his shirt as he pulls them out, giving up after a few tries and slumping next to him. Gotham spans out beneath them, as fathomless and black as a pit if not for the lights winking in its depths.

Bane pulls off his helmet to let the cool air kiss his skin. Large swaths of people were well within his range, but he was finding out large groups of children were a different battle altogether -- admitting weakness wasn't a habit he regularly made. As if reading his thoughts John comments, "Not used to being around so many kids, huh?"

He sighs and sits next to him.

"...No."

"Don't worry about it. They were just pushing your buttons because we don't get a lot of visitors." The detective looks him up and down, corner of his mouth twitching, then back to his food. "I'll tell them to give you some space." He chuckles suddenly. "Out of all things, I didn't expect kids to be the ones to push _your_ buttons."

"You don't give yourself enough credit." Bane responds mildly. It's easy to recharge simply watching the man finish his meal -- how he struggles to slow down his pace despite his hunger, the way he casually bobs his leg in thought and stares at something only he can see in the distance. It now occurs to him he's never seen him wear a vest before. It was a handsome choice, one that emphasized his lean figure almost as much as the dark jeans. Eventually John notes his attention and gives him a warm, tired smile.

"...You're staring at me." He says around a mouthful. "If I got something on my face you can just say so. It's probably soap."

"They love you dearly."

He's not sure how to respond at first. John taps his fork against the plate as he searches for a response. "Well...I love them." He takes another bite, then murmurs. "More than anything." Bane thinks of the trust Joel placed in him, even wracked in the throes of panic. The masked man jealously appreciated his own secrets, but a part of him needs to know what, exactly, went wrong. John isn't opposed to sharing, but whatever memory he holds sets his jaw firm.

"He just..." He sets down his empty plate and nudges it beneath the chair with his heel. "...cooking is one of his absolute _favorite_ things, but the household he grew up in didn't really encourage that." Bane can hear him curb anger around the careful topic. "His father was abusive and just so happened to have a habit of getting angry in the kitchen. Joel liked to cook with his mother, but it always ended up tied into some chauvinistic temper tantrum. Counselor told me he's learned to associate the kitchen with bad times and has to be weaned out of it."

A siren sounds faintly in the distance. "I mean, that's become our schtick over the years." John continues. "The orphanage that takes all the kids too messed up..." He punctuates his words with a twitch of his fingers. "...for the average program. Three places, if you can believe it, turned Joel down because of his fits. Nobody wanted to learn how to communicate with Jay, not even his own _parents_. Finn was considered a troublemaker with a future destined for a jail cell. Amir barely got out of a virtual horror house. Jai and Emanuel were both abandoned and were pretty much all they had 'til they found us. The list goes on for miles."

He lets out a long sigh through his nose. "Swithin's went from a place falling apart to a place _still_ falling apart but doing its damndest to make sure these kids get a second shot. That the hand they've been dealt doesn't follow them into adulthood." The loving, weary passion in his voice strikes a chord in Bane -- he realizes that the man's near-omnipresent anger always seemed to be on others' behalf.

"Trauma is permanent." Bane responds -- Talia's eyes, cold and blue, flicker in his mind. "It doesn't vanish so much as fades."

"No..." John agrees. "...no, it really doesn't." The man pulls a crooked cigarette out of his pocket and lights it with some trouble, sighing out a puff of smoke when the flame finally takes and leaning back in his chair. "But we'll take care of them."

"To take care of others you need to tend to yourself first." Bane adds, earning a snort-turned-cough in response. John flicks ash into the breeze and takes another eager drag.

"Well, thanks to _you_ I took an actual nap for the first time in fifty years." He frowns when Bane grunts reluctant assent. "You're not going to hold me hostage and force me to drink Earl Grey again?"

"You disliked it."

"No! It was actually pretty good. Just...not used to tea, still. That...and it still reminds me of being strung up to a wall." The detective seems to deliberate over something, then swiftly moves from his chair to sit in his lap. Bane blinks at him, earning both a smile and a shrug in response.

"View's better from here."

" _Mm_." He hums as the man proceeds to make himself comfortable. "I agree."

John drapes his arms over his shoulders as he kneels over him, licking the dryness from his lips with purpose. He takes one last drag and tosses the cigarette behind him onto the ground, sighing the smoke out against his collar and urging him to touch him. Bane doesn't need to be told twice.

The cold air grows warm between their close bodies. He's been aching for the firmness of the detective's body since he first arrived -- it had been an impressive chore distracting himself from filthy thoughts as not to look lewd in front of a gaggle of small children. Bane feels along the sharp curve of his hips for one ponderous moment before pulling him down and rocking softly against his groin. John's breath hitches unevenly and he shifts to better straddle his lap so he can return the gesture with gusto. He likes the vest quite a bit, but it's in the way.

John leans back and smiles down at him as he flicks the buttons apart. Chewing on his lip in that way he always does and making Bane's blood quicken.

"This is nice."

\--

The boys gather around to see him off (save for Tiya, said by Finn to be 'sulking in his room', likely an unfortunate detail from his harsh tone before). They are all distinctly calmer than they were an hour ago from both the food and the now blanketing darkness outside. John's vest is folded and tossed over one shoulder. If any of the boys take note of his rather rumpled button-up, they deign not to mention it.

"Um, Behnam? Tiya was just being obnoxious..." Amir says as he pulls on his jacket. "You can wear your helmet whenever you want. Thanks for making dinner and helping out Reilly."

"Oh, don't worry about it." John grins mischievously. "I mean, he just wears it because he has bad acne. Like, loads of zits all over his-ow, ow, _ow_." Amir covers his mouth and tries not to laugh as Bane twists his ear.

"You're welcome."

It's pitch black out -- he stayed a little longer than expected. Finn watches him start his bike from the doorway, John beside him and rubbing his ear. Bane pulls on his gloves and nods to them. The detective starts to wave, then flips him off.

A quiet affection warms his chest throughout the duration of the ride, though it quickly dies down at the sight of his men congregating at the entrance to the sewers. Already Bane can sense something's virulently wrong -- the moment he's off his bike he moves through them with purpose, barely listening to what they're saying and going to where he hears voices raised in a cluster. He finds Barsad and Salim exhausted and shivering in the med room -- his second-in-command tries to stand when he walks in, urged down again by one of the medics.

"Ali is dead. I would have contacted you earlier, but our communications were jammed. By the time I could reach you I had to stay low..." He's speaking rapidly despite his injuries, though the medics bending over him and administering care prevent him from seeing exactly where. Salim is limp and pale on one of the cots -- an occasional twitch betrays the life still inside him. "We were expected. Somehow they knew."

"Dr. Pavel?"

"Sick, but being tended to."

The other mercenaries sense his fury and inch away as surreptitiously as possible. Bane would muse over possibilities of incompetence or betrayal or sabotage later, somewhere dark and isolated where results made themselves almost prophetically clear. For now he needed to know...

"And the reactor?"

The man tells him the answer before he's even opened his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A really long and clumsy chapter, but there was a lot I wanted to get down. Story's taking a life of its own and I feel like I'm just here for the ride.


	24. Still Not Much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for self-harm and suicide mention.
> 
> (apologies for not putting this up initially!)

The shame in Barsad's eyes had been palpable. It was nothing compared to his own.

The fight had been brief, but bloody. Ali, one of his more skilled fighters, had succumbed to multiple gunshot wounds attempting to carry Pavel to safety. Salim had only gotten off marginally easier and he admits he wasn't sure if he'd make it. Barsad talked about how the young man had been in the wrong place at the right time, admiring the view on a hilltop during the proceeds when Rubio suddenly held him hostage -- his sharp eye had shot the gun right out of the traitor's hands, buying him and Barsad both time to get to cover. With an incoming storm to hide their footsteps and make passage on foot difficult they managed to escape with the still-drugged scientist, leaving the reactor in their wake by necessity.  


Barsad was more than a mercenary -- he was the closest he had to a second-in-command. Selected for his calm under pressure, flexible skillset and reliability. However, it was clear he was no longer content to silently obey, even as he recovered in the med room from both the wounds and illness he sustained over his journey back to Gotham. He demanded to know what, exactly, had prompted Bane to act so mysteriously. Why he had kept the knowledge from both his men and Talia. What this would mean for their future.

"I consented to die for our cause years ago. I trusted you to tell us the truth when you felt necessary. I still trust you." He had said laboriously, careful not to disturb his bandages. "But it's unfair to have us die without knowing _why_."

Shame is a rare emotion and one the masked man faces like he would a loathed enemy, determined not to waver beneath its accusatory gaze. 

So Bane had told him the truth, however curtly, watching as Barsad's cool cracked with shock, dread and something like disappointment. He told him how John Blake's quick thinking and Talia's arrogance had both worked together to reveal her true intentions for the future of Gotham. His own attempt to quietly and quickly shift power in the League during her visit to Metropolis to play it safe. He doesn't elaborate on the detective's presence in his life, nor the visits to St. Swithin's he's been enjoying. If anything _those_ emotions were more alien. Ones he didn't know how to fold into submission yet.

Salim had disobeyed his orders to free John Blake. Now Rubio and a few others (Barsad, unfortunately, hadn't been able to identify them at the time) had gone behind his back for reasons unknown, even as his conscience howls an ugly possibility. Bane's hold on his men was becoming more tenuous than he'd like, but it was the nature of power -- it remained a treacherous beast, as soon as willing to turn on its holder as it would its enemies. Whether or not that had been Talia's hubris remained to be seen. 

He thinks of Joel, whose biggest shame was a spilled bowl.

Talia had contacted him not long after Barsad and Salim returned to let him know her flight had been delayed again -- Gotham was seeing tighter restrictions on its travel protocols, affecting even the upper-class in their day-to-day. Whether or not this was affecting her, well...lies were no longer an unbelievable element in their relationship. In the meantime he would assess the activity of the small groups he sectioned in and out of Gotham, narrowing down the perpetrators as he narrowed down where the reactor could have been hidden to.

Bane muses over progress and setbacks as he moves through the storm drains. For a moment he and the darkness are one entity and it's easier to plan. Rallies are starting to see less fights and pushback as Gotham slowly but surely becomes used to the League's activities. It was the community-wide manifestation of the stages of grief -- denial had long since passed, with anger now firmly in the hands of the people and growing stronger with each new day. Only now were Gotham's elite attempting to bargain away their fate with short-term solutions and thinly-veiled threats from the safety of their nests.

The choking and thrashing throes of a great city, one that would only rise from the ashes once it finally accepted its inevitable death and rebirth. He deigns to keep the lantern off in his gallery and sits down to powder his hands in preparation.

He thinks of Amir and the world he dreams about with chalk and paper.

The hurry of scattered thoughts and goals flicker to almost nothing at the promise of a purely physical exercise. Concern, anger, even the rare sting of fear. Each emotion is carefully cataloged and stored for later dissection. He _had_ planned on informing his men of the change after the reactor was secured. Now that the luxury of surprise was no longer in his grasp he had to find another route. It was somewhat common for a group to become cocksure once a major goal was met, be it the siege of a city or occupation of a small territory. Bane had seen it, albeit rarely, during his time in the League. Gotham had been hardly a challenge -- he could pull his men back together. He would just have to do it without Talia.

His logical mind runs up and down the positives and negatives of expressing the truth about Talia and his reasons for attempting to relocate the reactor. The risk of losing their respect in favor of catching them up to speed and getting the weapon back in his hands as soon as possible. They would obey. But Barsad's words cling with stubborn veracity.

He had never needed Talia to inspire both fear and respect in others. Indeed, it was one of the few gifts the pit had given him even after he left. Her omnipresent support, however, was becoming more and more sorely missed. They had once been a cohesive machine, working together as a single unit even as they dabbled in distinctly different fields -- her going from the field of law to environmental science and public relations, him in sabotage and assassination. It was becoming more difficult not to feel like a motorcycle missing a spoke or a winged creature missing a few vital pinions as of late, the lies between them thicker than any wall.

He thinks of Finn and his omnipresent ache for freedom.

Bane tempers the wires on his mask. He has to reduce his analgesic periodically to prevent his body from becoming too acclimated -- it's become increasingly difficult over the years, even causing him to occasionally seek out alternate drugs when his preferred method can't quite numb the eternal bite that chews through his jaw, neck and spine. Unfortunately, physical ailments aren't the only struggles that snap and bite without medication to keep it at bay.

With Barsad and Salim both out of commission he chose not to replace them for the night and instead isolates himself with the pain. Slowly but surely the calm, familiar haze fades, leaving sour aches and uncontrollable spasms in its wake. He could handle the fraying of his nerves. How his back felt like it was attempting to cave in on itself. The dormant memories were not so easy. Memories that swim beneath the surface, always waiting to rear their heads to pull him back in.

One lift. Two. Three. The pain is like hot coals beneath his skin. It's all he can do to lift the dumbbell again before it drops from his fingers and hits the floor, fingers jerking as his body tries to make sense without the drug.

He thinks of John's dark eyes and the peace he's starting to find there.

\--

For once, Blake is relaxing on his own.

It's definitely alien, that much was for sure. Every time he took a moment to sit down there was something else he _had_ to do and before he knew it he was typing, washing dishes or looking for something to fidget with to avoid digging into his cigarette box. Now he was on his laptop bouncing between research and listening to the latest news. It was probably a matter of time before he went on a jog around the complex.

Barbara was attempting to hook him up with a computer repair gig. It's freelance and unpredictable, but would give him the flexibility he needed to get his life back in order. Not a bad way to sharpen his skills, either, though he harbors no delusions about the work -- he'll likely spend most of his time deleting basic viruses and reassuring customers that, no, they didn't _really_ delete an entire program by accident. He's pulling up the application page when Amanda Waller appears on the television. Her sharp black suit and red undershirt make her look severe yet distinct, no doubt something she worked hard to cultivate. He leans forward with interest -- whatever she's on for must be pretty big if even independent stations are showing it.

 _"Many people are wondering how Bane can appear so regularly in public and is yet to be apprehended."_ The reporter starts, her expression indicating she's in a similar boat. _"With Commissioner Gordon at the risk of losing his position and Foley attempting to seek out Metropolis' assistance in the matter, I was hoping you could lay some fears to rest."_ Waller folds her hands calmly and holds her gaze.

 _"Bane is not your average terrorist. However, this is not your average department."_ The camera focuses a little more carefully on her face. If he remembers correctly, this is only the second time she's been called out to talk directly about the man. She was a notoriously busy woman and normally had people regurgitating pacifistic basics in her place. _"Gotham has seen plenty of trouble over the past few years. If anything they've simply whet our appetite for a challenge."_

_"Do you believe the rumors that he keep his identity hidden behind the mask to create multiple personas?"_

_"I'm not here to entertain rumors."_ Waller responds curtly. _"I'm here to keep a terrorist and his lackeys from destroying our city._ "

It's a smart answer. The reduction of Bane's trained mercenaries to 'lackeys' even more so. He doesn't care for the tactic, but he knows the logic behind it -- there was no better way to downplay danger and keep a population ignorant than to make it all seem like something out of a comic book. He thinks about how Gordon would respond to these questions. The man was never fond of interviews, preferring whenever he could to leave what he called the 'huffing and puffing' to people who were used to the camera. While he'd do it out of a sense of duty, the public image he had to keep up was something that was starting to wear him down. Even still, he was appearing even less than usual on-screen as of late. He considers giving him a call later.

 _"What do you know about the mask?"_ The reporter asks. Waller's calm frown suggests she's not too fond of the same old question. No doubt the journalist was trying to get in as many boosts to the rating as possible before Waller retreated to her usual mystery. _"Do you worry about the trend of some of his supporters mimicking its appearance to conceal their identity?"_

Blake snorts into his coffee. He had found street vendors selling knock-offs of Bane's iconic creation when he ran errands the other day -- he couldn't help noting, a touch humorously, they often had the wrong number of wires. He'd have to ask the guy what _he_ thought of everyone trying to define themselves in his image. Considering his rather meager view of some of Gotham's less-than-savory habits, he probably wouldn't be overly flattered. Then again, maybe he would.

 _"This is merely a repeat of the Joker's attempted reign of terror eight years ago."_ Only now does a smug note enter her voice. _"Just like the Joker they'll find out what happens when they try to make a mockery of Gotham's legal system."_

_"Do you believe Batman will return?"_

_"The only difference between Bane and Batman is their screentime."_ He hears a few rumbles of laughter just off-camera. _"As of now, Batman's disappearance means I have one less mystery to solve."_

Blake sighs. Same old, same old.

The interview closes with the usual formalities and vague updates on the department's goals for the future -- he can practically parrot each sentence word-for-word, starting with 'community-building incentives' and ending with 'future relations'. Like it's a small uptick in crime or the aftermath of a bad storm and not, well, a masked vigilante practically turning the city upside down and shaking the change from its pockets. Gotham, like usual, is growing used to anything bizarre and dangerous through sheer necessity. He can only just remember a time when he _wasn't_ used to it and it was small wonder it was when his parents were still alive and his life was actually somewhat stable.

Protests and clashes destroying yet another capitol building and damaging its ritzy streets not two days ago and it hardly leaves a damper on his mind. If anything he's focused more intently on the strange events that have been cropping up nearby.

They would be negligible oddities at a glance...at least, to anyone who hadn't actually lived there once. An odd and dramatic surge in violent behavior in and around Old Gotham, with a few attempted suicides happening around the same time mentioned in a single off-hand sentence at the bottom of the page he finds on one of the social media accounts. Part of his goal in law enforcement was to do his part in helping more desperate communities because he _knew_ what it was like to be left with little to no options. Nothing about this rubs him right.

This string of events, of course, hadn't made it to the public news. His new neighborhood just barely bordered The East End and Old Gotham -- while they both weren't considered as violent as the Bowery (he still remembered Gordon telling him he wouldn't be stationed there 'til his _third_ year), they were still touted by many as some of Gotham's biggest shames and were frequently left out of any economic redevelopment or tourist campaigns. The last orphanage he was at before St. Swithin's kept him on was in the East End and it was a difficult place to go back to. While scrolling through whatever meager scraps of information he can find he thinks of Bane appearing at Old Gotham and appealing to the long-neglected immigration population there. How a normally tense and untrusting crowd had looked at him like an old friend.

Before he knows it evening has hit and his coffee is almost ice cold from neglect. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears a sharp _rap-rap_ on his door. Pulling out his pistol he checks the peephole, then relaxes when he sees the face of one of his neighbors looking anxiously at him. Not an immediate threat, but he double-checks his side windows anyway.

He recognizes her only barely by her long dark hair -- one of his neighbors in the complex.

"Hey, uh. Sorry to bother you." She's shivering in the cold without a jacket -- it's likely she walked the length of the complex on a whim. "Are you John Blake?"

"Who's asking?" He says, trying to keep his tone polite and failing.

"I just...I'm." He shakes off bad memories with some effort and stands outside, crossing his arms and waiting expectantly. "I'm Chin-Mae. I wanted to ask a few questions."

He relaxes a little. His gut can sense something's up, but as of now she's clearly no threat.

"A friend of mine was attacked. Um, last night. Attacker hasn't been found yet. I didn't know who else to ask about it. I already called and they told me to just get the neighborhood watch and file a complaint and it's...a load."

"Is your friend okay?"

"Um, yeah. Stab wounds, but nothing vital." She suddenly looks miserable. "Scared the shit out of me. Thought they were going to die."

"Where did this happen?"

"They live near Old Gotham." She sounds almost embarrassed. "It's...not really on the map? But it's right next to it."

He knows what she means -- either her friend is an immigrant or too poor to afford a traditional place to live...or both. What he doesn't know is why his skin is crawling like it's covered in ants. Something _more_ is being kicked up in the recesses of his mind, something old and incredibly useful, but he can't make anything out in the haze. He was going to curse his nostalgia when he had another free moment, he just knows it.

She takes his silence for hesitance, because she adds, a little desperately, "Nobody's been helping me. I was just wondering if you knew anyone who...could. I have more friends there. I was told you're a cop, that maybe you worked with the Commissioner before..."

Even now the Commissioner still had a reputation for giving a fuck. He'd see how long that would last.

Reilly had seemed pretty concerned when he mentioned rumors to him the other day, but he was a worrywart by nature. It was easy to brush it off as his usual paranoia, but with the recent news and _this_ raising the pile something was starting to add up. Intuition was as dependable as the knife in his boot, though it was, admittedly, a little less straightforward.

"What else have you heard about stuff like this?" He asks -- she squints in confusion and he takes a moment to gather his thoughts. "I've both read about and heard of some similar things going on around Old Gotham. Do you know anyone else who's been through something similar? Any rumors?"

She shakes her head. "No." He starts to rub his hair in frustration, but then she continues. "I mean, not like...stabbings. There have been some strange things, but...I didn't know what to make of them."

He leans forward. "Like what? Tell me everything."

She suddenly looks nervous and he holds up a hand.

"I'm not going to share this. To be honest with you, I'm not even a cop anymore. Quit a little while ago."

She stiffens. "Then why did you have me standing out here?" She doesn't seem particularly mad and he considers that's because her expectations were low to begin with.

"Because I can still help you." The conviction in his voice seems to put her at ease, if only a little. She looks him up and down, careful, then continues.

"Like I said, I have friends who live there. One told me about their roommate hurting themselves really badly one night while in the kitchen. Said it was an accident but it clearly wasn't. They sent me a photo on my phone of the aftermath and it was a mess...like something you'd see on a movie set or something. I also read about some attempted suicides going on there...I didn't hear about those from anyone, just saw it on the news."

Her face slowly falls as she stares at his reaction.

"You think it's...connected?"

He doesn't want to scare her. He also doesn't want to lie.

"I'll find out."

He's frank about the possibilities of finding closure with his limited resources, but he emphasizes he'll spread the word. She gives him her number in case of an update and heads off into the growing dark with her hands shoved between her shaking arms. Blake walks back inside, pushes his back against the door and pinches the bridge of his nose so hard it hurts. What in the everloving _hell_ was he doing. He shouldn't be accepting this. Not with so much on his plate. But he knows if he doesn't the guilt will eat him up alive.

The guilt that he _could've_ done something and chose the easy way out again.

Dinner is hasty, his energy suddenly sapped and hard to find again. Noodles and an overripe avocado don't make the best combination but he's got leftover beer to wash it all down. Gordon doesn't pick up at first. When he does he sounds like he's about to fall asleep on the phone and Blake knows he has to cut to the chase.

"Listen." He says in-between bites. "Barbara's worried about you."

 _"I'm aware, John. Tell me you didn't just call to give me a lecture._ "

"No, that's just about it." He admits. "She got pretty detailed about how you've become all but a hermit over the past two weeks. I mean, if you're still going to stick around then you might as well do it all the way, right?" Blake didn't exactly like rubbing righteousness in people's faces, but the temptation could be hard to ignore.

_"Between trying to keep my family together during these trying times and attempting to maintain my daily duties, I think I'll take the chance that Barbara might fret from time to time."_

"Even falling asleep at the wheel?"

The man curses softly. That might get Barbara snapped at later, but it was two against one so far.

"Look, I'm...worried."

It's the best he can say, with his conflicting emotions. The weary tone in Gordon's voice suggests he's feeling very much the same.

_"Sometimes you go through life and wonder how you got here."_

Blake sits down on the couch and lowers the television volume.

 _"The night Harvey held a gun to my family..."_ He's quiet for a moment. _"He asked me...'Have you ever tried to talk to the person you love most and tell them it's going to be all right when you know it's not'?"_

Blake's mouth goes dry. The man never shared any further details with him. Nothing beyond what Bane read aloud in the years-old note.

_"I've been held hostage before. Seen my life flash before my eyes. Nothing compared to that night, on the edge of that building. Even now, years later...I find myself wondering why the truth doesn't always make things right."_

"Yeah." He replies softly. "...No kidding."

" _What would you have done if you were in the same situation?_ "

The question startles him. What-if exercises were useful to an extent, but they only went so far. He found this out the hard way when thought experiments, basic training _and_ his own on-and-off training amounted to nearly nothing when he met Bane for the first time. Then again when a building was ready to crash on him and all he could think to do was curl up into a ball. He doesn't tell him this, but he _does_ admit that his answer probably won't add up to much. Gordon insists and he takes a moment to mull it over.

"...Would do anything for my boys. Would've begged him to turn the gun on me and spare them..." Gordon doesn't respond and he realizes, horribly, that's likely exactly what the man had done. "...then I probably would have joined him."

" _Who?_ "

"Batman."

" _Would you join him now, if you could?_ "

"...No." He waves a hand in the air, even though the man can't see him. "It's not to say I don't want to learn from him. But now? Maybe I'm just a little uneasy following people I don't know...very well." He trails off a little and sighs through his nose.

" _I'm sorry, John._ "

"Look, we don't have to do this again." It's actually unnerving hearing such an open apology and he's momentarily worried the guy's gonna do something drastic. Blake had all but left his department behind him, but Gordon, even after finding out the guy's standards weren't as solid as he thought, was proving a little harder to let go. He second-guesses bringing up issues in Old Gotham and chalks it up to pity. "Just assure me you're doing the right thing now. As much as you can still working with fucks like Foley."

Gordon sighs. He can hear the faint _scritch-scritch_ of his mustache.

"Still not much, is it...?" Blake says into the silence.

 _"No."_ He responds. _"No, it really isn't."_

The answer doesn't put him at ease. It certainly doesn't help him sleep that night, especially not with the additional responsibility of taking on what felt like the weight of the world in the span of a few hours. Even chasing down the rest of his beer and sneaking in an extra cigarette (much to his quiet shame) lulls him into a doze that doesn't last long. A good night's sleep was a blue moon in Gotham and it was past time he stopped wishing for more than the occasional fluke. So he listens to the faint crunching of gravel and distant honking of cars, a city that, at the very least, was wide-awake with him.

His only peace is that he wouldn't have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw writing starts to flow more smoothly and it's only a matter of time before it slaps you in the mouth with a wet sock _yet again_


	25. A New Member

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for suicide mention.

He would go crazy.

It's been years since he felt comfortable walking about on land. Without soft flesh that grew wrinkled and soggy with age he was cursed with the omnipresent ache for the smooth glide of a cold body of water. It was so pervasive he almost forgot why he ventured into the storm drain to begin with. Why he even bothered to double-check Gotham's latest visitors and didn't just write them off as yet another obstacle to avoid or kill, whichever came first.

Stone...stone was definitely worse than land.

Land was soft. Grew softer with moisture, especially the snow that seemed to haunt Gotham like an angry spirit. Stone was disgusting. Even here when it grew wet, never pliant, never enough. His claws grew dull and he'd lost too many scales attempting to reason with it and the chains cutting into his ankles.

Once they found out he could eventually gnaw his way through metal they strapped him firm in the middle of the room. He could move just enough to stretch his sore muscles. Not enough to reach his chains properly or the bars on the cage. During one particularly delusional (and hungry) moment he considered eating his own arm. It wasn't that they didn't feed him -- they were keen to toss in slabs of (admittedly, deliciously fresh) meat or still-thrashing fish on a regular enough basis. They simply had no clue to his appetite, nor was he feeling in the mood to let them know by speaking.

The only thing stopping him from mutilating himself for freedom was the idea that it could impede his ability to fight Bane. One of two entire people in his life he had ever been afraid of. One of many people he definitely wouldn't mind seeing dead.

His food arrives. From the wet smacking and faint dripping, more fish. One of the mercenaries (his sense of smell had long since rotted away and they remained firmly in the shadow) hands him something small and flimsy along with his meal. Pushes it through the bars and lets it slide into view before him. He remembers with alarming suddenness.

He would go crazy.

\--

Thank goodness for coffee.

It's the glue that stitches him together when he goes out to the new shelter on its opening Friday. Bane calls him on the road -- he pulls over and puts his engine on idle, even though he's itching to get to his destination.

"Hey."

The man's voice sounds even stranger on a cell.

_"There have been new developments. We need to talk."_

He adjusts the phone beneath his ear, grateful he hasn't gotten rid of his car just yet despite burning through his savings -- it'd be just a little inconvenient to bring a big dog he just adopted onto the bus.

"Sure. Want to come to Fray's Shelter with me and do it there?"

_"I did not contact you for frivolity."_

"Frivolous? I'm doing this for the boys. I'm getting a dog to look after them, keep them company, all that good stuff." He frowns when Bane doesn't answer. "Look, I know you've got this shit to figure out. You keep telling me I need to stop neglecting my health, but you're at this twenty-four seven. If you don't take a break your performance is going to follow suit. I mean, that's pretty much what _you_ told _me_."

He puts a smile in his voice -- he was getting a lot of opportunities for sudden pep talks lately. "Come on. Just for an hour or two. We'll talk, hang out with some cute dogs, then you can go back to saving the city from near doom." He pauses. "I mean, unless you're in the middle of an interrogation..."

_Click._

The shelter is incredibly noisy, giving him hope he'll have a pretty good selection to choose from. One of the few perks when it came to adopting animals, anyway. It was hard to turn down any of them. He glances at a young girl hugging a puppy to her chest, talking animatedly to her mother about where it's going to sleep at night. Old memories tickle the back of his mind, fond and sad -- his mother struggling to hold her bag and flyers before she goes out of the door, turning him down as gently as possible when he asks again if they can have a cat. His father 'distracted' by something on the computer. He shakes himself visibly and walks inside.

A little bell announces his arrival. It's early in the day so there aren't many people, which is good since it'll guarantee him more one-on-one time with Swithin's future member of the family. Everything smells like dog hair and cleaning supplies. One of the workers, sleeves rolled up well past their elbows and a smudge of dry blood on her knee, walks over and gives him a weary smile.

"Looking for a pet?"

"Yeah. For my kids, actually."

"Oh?" She asks as she pulls out a clutter of keys and unlocks the door leading into the holding area. "How many?"

"Twenty-seven."

Her eyes grow wide. Her co-worker, who had been leaning against the wall and talking on the phone, tucks the receiver into her neck and calls out.

"Oh, he's the guy from yesterday. Works at the orphanage down the street."

He had called beforehand and asked if it'd be possible to bring them all. They had gently turned him down, citing that a significant amount of the dogs were rescues from bad households and probably wouldn't do well with a gaggle of kids hooting and hollering in the hallways. He couldn't guarantee they'd all be well-behaved, so he spent more than a few minutes thinking of the best way to break it to them it. Then he thought...why not a surprise? Aside from Amir's gallery showing, the boys weren't exactly swimming in good news. Not with Jay's failing grades and Finn still waffling on just how badly he wanted to round off his bail and enter the working world with a clean slate. It'd be a bit of a financial stretch, but it was one he was more than willing to help out with.

The facilities are well-maintained, if still rather dirty and smelly from the efforts of an overworked staff. It probably would hold up even worse over the coming weeks. Dozens of dogs fill almost all the cages down the hallways, with a separate room for cats to the far right. He can't resist picking up a round little bulldog puppy and letting it lick his face, which proves to be a bad idea in retrospect when he can hardly bear to set it back down again.

"Really, how do you manage not to adopt all of them?" He asks as the puppy presses its squished snout against his cheek and snuffles curiously.

"I just pretend they're all evil aliens that want to take over the world." The worker replies. "Lessens their appeal a little."

"Hell, even then." He says, laughing and spitting good-naturedly when the puppy tries to lick his mouth. With a heavy heart he hands it back to her and heads further into the hallway, starting from the right and going down gradually.

The bell _clink_ s again. He looks through the window to see one of the teenage volunteers gaping nervously at the massive form blocking the light from outside. The man's slight hunch suggests he's either in a poor mood or can't make it through the doorway otherwise -- he was willing to bet on both. Blake waves him over with a more enthused smile than he feels. He wasn't going to be swimming in good news, either.

Bane stalks over to where he's standing and looks down at the withered greyhound he's observing.

"Kind of skittish." Blake starts, leaning down and reaching out to it. The dog tentatively sniffs his hand, tail between her legs, but does little else. Blake reads the tag, then stands up again. "No go. Not a family dog." He nods slowly. "Retired racing dog, though. Be great as a therapy pet. Maybe get one for Reilly when _he_ retires."

Bane grunts and follows him as he moves through the narrow corridors. He skips over the puppies (as much as it kills him with their round bellies and wagging tails), going straight for larger dogs and any hint of "kids" on the tags. When they're not shrinking away from him they're clearly agitated, shifting from foot to foot and whining deep in their throats. It takes inspecting a collie mix, a pitbull and a heeler before he loses his patience and runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

"I don't want to sound like a prick, but they're all scared shitless. That's not something I want to introduce to over two dozen kids..." Blake crosses his arms tightly. "Maybe I should ask someone about this."

Bane leans against the brick wall between two cages and folds his hands together. Blake narrows his eyes when the dogs on either side of him shrink back from the bars.

"...Wait."

He gestures to the door. The man watches him motionlessly for one long moment, then leans off the wall and walks out. Blake shuts the door behind him and can already hear the dogs starting to shift around in his absence. He bites his knuckle trying not to laugh, turning and calling through the door's glass.

"I think they're afraid of _you_ , big guy."

He can't see the man's face, but he can harbor a few guesses as to the expression he's giving him. Blake takes a step back when he walks back in, crossing his arms again for emphasis.

"They're afraid of you...? As in, you should _probably_ stay outside for a sec."

"A protector shouldn't fear _my_ presence."

It was a good point. A dog that wasn't afraid of Bane wouldn't be afraid of anyone. He follows the man through the hall again, still feeling ten different types of guilty every time one of the mutts would whimper or lower their head. One of the workers, holding an old pug in a cast, gives Bane a wide berth and Blake a suggestive look -- it seems they caught on, too.

Bane stops in front of one of the furthermost cages, right by one of the windows. Inside is some sort of husky hybrid, that much he can see from its fluffy coat and wolfish face. Not a bad size, either, perfect for roughhousing and giving strangers second thoughts. Most of all, it didn't seem outright afraid of Bane -- she's sniffing at the bars, tail swishing with a tentative but healthy curiosity. Blake reads the tag and finds out she's a fairly young dog, was recently given up by a 'tumultuous' family and has an 'energetic' personality. It's got a red bar on the tag, meaning it's a high-maintenance breed.

A lot of brushing, probably. A decent amount of food and exercise. A great pet provided she didn't up and run off.

"Well, hey there." He starts, kneeling and reaching through to let her sniff his fingers. Once he gets the canine go-ahead he rubs her neck, earning a playful gnaw in the process. "You interested in a new family?"

"Why do you speak to her?" Bane asks, now watching from across the hall.

"To soothe her nerves."

The masked man snorts in a way that can only be translated as ' _weird_ '.

Blake looks over his shoulder. The man's body language, at this point, was almost as vivid as his facial expressions. His penchant for swagger has both people and the dogs in the shelter spooked, but he sees through it -- he's frustrated. Even worse, he's exhausted. Every once in a while his fingers will twitch, a tic he's now learned to associate with a short temper or some sort of pain. Other than that he's utterly silent, seeming almost hesitant to offer even basic commentary.

"...You doing all right?"

He doesn't get the usual dodge. The man might as well be a gargoyle for all the reaction he gets. Blake holds back a sigh and goes back to ruffling the dog's ears. He'd reach out more, but the guy seemed to take it as some sort of indirect insult. Like he's insinuating he's weak or incapable. It takes another minute's self-reflecting for him to dampen his righteous indignation and realize they're both people who have a hard time leaning on others. Now he knows how Reilly feels.

Maybe he doesn't want to open up -- not yet -- but he still came when he asked. He could have demanded he meet him elsewhere, and Blake would've no doubt agreed, yet here he was. Imposing and quiet and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else...but still here.

Blake asks one of the workers if he can take the dog out for a short walk. They happily give him a leash and direct him behind the shelter to the designated 'bonding' area -- a rather large yard barely stitched together by cheap fence. Zipping up his coat to stave off the worst of the cold he heads out, Bane following quietly behind.

They walk in silence together for a few minutes. The dog is ecstatic to be out of its cage, sniffing enthusiastically and lolling her tongue up at Blake in doggy gratitude. It's hard not to smile, even when he's sometimes suddenly yanked forward when she spots something interesting.

When it's clear the man isn't going to talk on his own he starts, even as he feels like he's mucking through a swamp without chaps.

"Uh, before I forget...did you hear about anything weird going on near East End or Old Gotham?" Bane looks down at him wordlessly and he elaborates, "Weird behavior. Self-harming, stabbings, attempted suicides. More than usual."

"A passing mention." Bane says. "Little else."

The man always had an ear to the ground. When he wasn't up to speed on something...well. He pays close attention to the uncomfortable stirring in his chest, desperate for it to tell him something.

"Been keeping up with news reports." He continues. "Two of the three major stations haven't covered it...and the one that _did_ is making it out to be some classist nonsense." He affects his voice to mimic robotic newsroom speak. "'It seems there's a new street drug taking hold of Gotham's more _unstable_ neighborhoods. Are your children safe?'" He's briefly validated by Bane's rude snort.

"I don't have access to the resources I had before, but I also don't have jackasses breathing down my neck 24/7 and filling up my free time with pointless shit like driving around in quota circles." He rubs his hair. "I mean, one of my neighbors asked me about it the other day. Said a friend got stabbed in that same area and they've heard about this huge uptick in strange behavior. I even said-"

The leash whips right through Blake's hands.

" _Shit!_ "

She's apparently seen something in the distance and is chasing after it at top speed. He tears after it with every last ounce of speed he has. Whatever she's chasing it's well beyond where he can see. He climbs over a fence and rolls over the top of someone's car, terrified she could run into the road and get hit. He all but tackles her when she stops, convinced he's going to have to drag her back to the shelter -- instead she's got a loose scrap of newspaper in her mouth, already soggy from slobber.

"The boys will have their hands full." Bane responds mildly when he returns, hands in his pockets as if nothing had happened. Blake is a hacking, coughing mess, leaning on his knees while the dog rolls around in the dirt at his feet. At least one of them was having the time of their life.

"I think she's got enough energy for an entire city block." He wheezes, holding up the leash to Bane. "She's not afraid of you...but I think that's because she's not afraid of _anything_."

Bane takes it and the dog immediately sits up to attention, looking up at him with a low swish of her tail. Blake raises his head and scowls through windblown bangs.

"Of _course_ she would."

Once he can breathe without coughing they continue down the path, going a little further out-of-bounds for more privacy. He pats dirt from his jeans and wipes his hands off, squinting up at him through the sun's rays. "Sorry, what did you want to tell me?"

The dog nudges Bane's hand for a pet. He glances at her, but otherwise doesn't move. "The reactor has gone missing."

Blake's jaw drops. "Wh-What? How do you _lose_ something like that?"

Bane's tone could curl paint. "I would _assume_ it had been stolen."

A thousand questions spring into his mind. He latches onto the one that seems the most important. "Do you have any clue who did it?"

"More than a clue." He doesn't feel relief. Not yet. The masked man is conspicuously stiff, hands folded behind his back not unlike his public persona.

"Is there... _another_ problem?"

"For now."

"You gonna tell me what that is?"

"Later."

He lets out a hard sigh and runs fingers through his hair. Better than nothing.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Be prepared for the worst."

"Sound advice." He says with a weak laugh, rubbing his forehead when wooziness threatens to sit his ass on the pavement. "That'd be something to tell Gordon." 

"What _did_ you tell Gordon?" Bane asks, voice perky and his tone anything but. Blake hadn't gotten very specific when he shared the recording, back when he still wanted to keep as many cards in his deck as possible. Now they were... _something_ , and keeping an excess of secrets didn't feel right. He chews on his lip in thought, which makes Bane's fingers twitch impatiently.

"I shared with him the recording." He says, a little hurriedly. "We were originally going to take it up with Waller." He wrings the leash around his hands, as much to keep the dog from sending him another adventure as to focus his attention somewhere other than doomsday thoughts. "To arrest Talia."

"Amanda Waller." He intones carefully. "A competent woman." With an ugly start Blake thinks of the people lately that met their end at his hands -- when it wasn't the upper-class with dirty laundry to spare, it was law enforcement or politicians. Would she be the next on his hit list? He didn't know her personally, no, but it gets him thinking.

"You said you were going _after_ Gordon." He switches suddenly, pausing only when a truck blares by. "...Would you have killed him?"

"Yes." He responds, simply.

So damn casual. He'd never fully understand it.

"And you would have killed me."

"Eventually." He tilts his head in a shrug. "We had each others' death in mind, as I recall."

" _You_ would've been arrested and put in a cell." Blake stresses.

"You think death the mere stopping of your heart." He can hear the years in Bane's voice. "There are many ways to die, John. Some crueler than others."

Even though the man wasn't wrong, it didn't make him any more comfortable. He twists the leash in his hands in an attempt to ground himself.

"So, if someone wanted to just blow up Gotham tomorrow..."

"Unlikely. The reactor has not been converted yet. Our scientist ran into...trouble, so my primary concern is less its detonation and more to see its safe relocation." He finally feels his shoulders relax. Just a little. That is, until he adds: "Talia is _my_ responsibility."

He can guess to the implications in that statement. He doesn't like any of them.

"Sure, she is. And you're the one that lost both her _and_ the reactor. I'm supposed to just hang back and assume you'll get it done?" Blake holds himself square in the face of Bane's growing anger -- it was definitely easier thought than done. "I'll do whatever I can to keep the city safe. Even if that means our methods don't line up."

"Will you now." He responds coldly. "By still working for the Commissioner."

"I'm not _working_ for him. He's a friend."

"A friend with filthy hands." He can feel the man's icy stare through the helmet. "I find your boundless compassion troublesome, John Blake. Do you intend to see the goodness in those that have proven otherwise?"

"He always looked out for me."

"At the expense of hundreds of peoples' dignity."

"I don't think you, or any one person, has all the answers, Behnam."

He's glad he can't see his expression. The utter contempt and fury that's no doubt leering through the tinted visor. A soft series of footsteps turns their gaze -- one of the workers is standing just a ways down the sidewalk, a smile on her face and visibly nervous.

"Is, uh, everything all right out here?"

He puts on a smile and waves at her.

"We're good! Getting a real run for our money, here."

The dog barks once, as if to confirm. Bane gives her a curt nod. He waits until she goes inside, then he's looming over him and casting him in a sudden and very cold shadow. Blake has to will his danger mode to turn off with more than a little effort.

"Because you and yours were insufficient I appeared." He hisses softly. "Because you and yours chose the wrong path I stayed. Because Gotham is still an abject _stain_ on the mere idea of a just and safe community I will stay as long as I'm needed. You are free to contest me..." He tilts his head. "...but I do not recommend it."

He swallows slowly and says nothing. The dog peers up at them quietly, the calmest she's been since he arrived.

"If you will _not_ then you will admit to the folly of maintaining idealistic connections with those that pull Gotham ever toward its ruin."

"Yeah...?" His temper is starting to boil. "Like Talia?"

"I am working to disarm her." His voice lowers dangerously. "Can you claim anything similar?"

"I'm _working_ on it."

The masked man turns and walks away at that. Blake stalks after him with the dog in tow. He's damn sick of being talked down to like he has no clue what's at stake. The only thing worse than the quiet rage in his stomach is the knowledge that Bane actually seemed disappointed in him. He wasn't sure how to deal with it.

"I will maintain contact. Until then..." He looks over his shoulder. "I will be finding the reactor and ensuring that such a slip-up doesn't happen again. I will be moving in and out of Gotham." A formal way of saying they weren't going to be meeting much over the next chunk of time. Disappointment and anger didn't mix well.

"It'll be a nice break, I imagine." Blake replies. "Don't get too used to the outside world." He knows his tone is sour. He figures he'll regret it later. Bane stares at him for a moment, then starts his motorcycle, backs out and drives off without another word. The dog barks at his retreating form, as if giving voice to Blake's mangled feelings.

\--

Another go-around (without _Behnam's_ more commanding presence) and he's feeling good about her. Energetic and sorely lacking discipline, but it was a combo he and the boys would be able to work with. While it would have been easy to just call it a day, he wanted to be extra careful for once.

She's already had her shots and the workers ask if he wants an appointment to get her spayed. He opts for it as soon as possible, knowing a surprise bundle of puppies would be worse for everyone in the long run (though his heart clamors for the chance to have at least _one_ opportunity to have a bundle of little furry newborns in his arms). He buys a few treats, a squeaky ball and a knotted rope to complete the package. The employees give him a cheesy round of applause when he leaves, commending him for being the tenth person to visit as well as the first person to actually ask about getting the dog fixed.

Reilly tells him the boys are back from their field trips when he calls in. The dog is clambering up and down the backseat when he's out on the road again, making driving a _lot_ harder than he remembered. He's halfway convinced she _wants_ to get him into a wreck when she leans over into the driver's seat and slathers her tongue all over his ear.

"Fuck!" He bats her away and rubs the side of his head against his shoulder. "Oh, _god_ , that's gross..."

She's yanking on the chain once she's out, puffing clouds into the air and thrashing her tail like she's going to burst into a pile of fur. She walks _him_ more than he walks her to the front door and somehow he's still unprepared for the boys' reaction.

"You got us a _dog_?!" He hears yelled in unison. Whatever homework or project Jai and Emanuel are working on is immediately pushed to the side and Jay all but climbs over the table to run to where Blake is standing in the doorway. His hands flick eagerly, almost too quick for Blake to register, but he's clearly delighted by how cute she is. One by one all the boys make their way over to see the newest addition.

"He's enormous!" Joel gasps when he nears the foyer, shrinking back shyly yet watching her with shining eyes.

" _She's_ enormous." Blake corrects gently.

"We have a _girl_ dog?" He asks with awe. "Does that mean we'll get _puppies_ , too?"

"I call dibs on one of the puppies!" Tiya cries when he runs into the room. "I want the runt of the litter so I can keep it in my backpack and take it to school."

"I think _any_ puppy would fit, dork." Jay adds snidely by his hip where he thinks Blake can't see. Tiya moves to flip him off, only to move his hand in some vague pantomime when Blake gives _him_ a look.

"Runts are _special_." Tiya mutters instead.

"She's spayed, so no puppies." Blake raises a hand at the gaggles of disappointed " _Aww!_ "s that meet him. "But it doesn't mean we couldn't just adopt a puppy if you take good care of her. You'll all have separate duties brushing her, feeding her and taking her for walks. She's part of the family now, so you all need to do your part."

"Did you get her at the new shelter?" Amir asks, tentatively reaching over and patting Trevor's large thigh.

"How come you didn't invite us?" Jay adds, accusingly.

"Could I take all her shed fur and fill a pillowcase with it?" Tiya gasps.

"A lot of the dogs came from abusive or neglectful households. They didn't think it'd be a good idea to bring a bunch of kids over for a field trip." He holds back a smile when the boys exchange knowing glances -- an immediate sympathy. "Also...sure." He's still getting a sour look from Jay and he holds up a hand for emphasis. "Come on, you think you all could pick a dog from the bunch? I had to hold myself back from smuggling all the puppies out of there."

Tiya shoves a few of the couch pillows under his arms in an imitation of what he'd probably look like in the attempt, earning a laugh from Joel and even a soft chuckle from Amir in the corner, his sketchbook open and the dog's grinning face already in an attempted translation from life to paper.

Reilly walks in, probably to tell them all to quiet down, and freezes in place. While Blake _did_ tell him he was thinking of getting one, he didn't exactly tell him when. The man's bushy brows furrow into his signature 'V' and Blake gives him an apologetic grin over Joel's head.

' _Don't worry, I got this._ ' He mouths.

"What?" Reilly says, squinting.

Joel reaches out to pet her, then shrinks back again when she bounds to the couch and starts snuffling her nose into the cushions. Poor kid didn't come into contact with animals often and it was becoming clearer with each passing minute he didn't know what to make of the virtual wolf that entered his life.

"Does Banen like dogs?" He asks when Blake gives one of them the leash and stands up to join Reilly. "I think he would like dogs."

"Funny story, actually. He's the one that picked her out." A little exaggerated, but the man's presence had been a surprising help. He _tries_ not to think about their less-than-stellar farewell (easier thought than done) and focuses on the boys in front of him. He was a little worried all their excess energy could agitate an already sensitive constitution, but she seemed to feed off their excitement more than anything. Like she had ten birthdays rolled up into one day. All in all, the first meeting could have gone a lot worse.

"Good timing, huh." Reilly says to his surprise when he goes to stand next to him -- his reading glasses are still on and he looks more tired than ever. He was getting to the age where getting sick left its mark. "With all the stuff going on, a big dog will put me at ease. They can sense things humans can't, you know."

"We'll be okay." Blake responds, nudging his shoulder with his own. "You know I've got your back."

"Yeah, but does Gotham patrol." He mutters. "Been hearing about some weird things going on in Old Gotham. Not that far from us, you know."

"I know. I've been looking it up, too." He thinks it best to save exactly _what_ he's been hearing until he has a better handle on it all. Reilly had a tendency to stick to the primary news stations, anyway. "We've managed without much help before. Like that time the basement and one of the rooms flooded and filled with mold. Remember when our past manager wouldn't even reimburse us? We got this."

"I don't know where you get all that optimism, Blake." He says with a rare smile. "You've changed so much."

Blake grins. "What can I say, your sunny personality rubbed off on me over the years."

He appreciates the rare moment of nostalgia. Despite being the orphanage's Father he never fit the image of a saccharine parental-religious figure with a dimpled smile. Years later and he was still classic Reilly, bony edges and quiet paranoia without much of a bite. Even though he practically raised him throughout the rest of his teenage years he was less of a father substitute and more of an uncle -- a little distant, but always there when he needed him.

"...I hope you can keep it." He says with a sigh. "However ugly it gets." He claps a hand on his shoulder and gives him a squeeze before making his slow way up the stairs. Blake holds onto the warmth in his chest when he goes to check on Finn. The boy's watching television, though it's clearly a distraction due to the slightly glazed look in his eyes. That is, until the dog makes her way to the main room and promptly jumps on him. He dissolves into a laughing fit as the kid attempts and fails to move his face away from her huge mouth.

" _Holy-_...okay! We got another kid, apparently!" He tries to say through her furry ruff, only to spit out a clump of hair.

"Twenty-eight and counting." Blake responds, hugging his shaking sides. The orphanage _definitely_ needed more laughter.

"Why a dog?" He asks when she's marginally calmed down, beanie now skewed and threatening to slide off his head. "I mean, not that I'm complaining."

"We talked about keeping the younger boys company. Especially with you, Jai and Emanuel getting older and all. I also want a bit more peace of mind when they walk and bus home." He smirks. "She'll also teach you _discipline_."

Finn rolls his eyes as he squishes her face and lifts her snout to his nose. "Yeah, I'm sure she'll be a great replacement for the vice principal." He smirks. "Kinda looks like her, if we're being honest."

"So, _about_ your car having nails in the tires despite you still not having your license..." Blake says as he leans against the wall. "I was a budding detective and even I can't figure that conundrum out."

Finn sets his jaw stubbornly and shrugs. Well. One thing at a time.

"So, what's her name?" He asks after a moment of silence, checking her collar for good measure. Blake opens his mouth, then slowly shuts it and slaps a hand to his forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist a little plot-sprinkled fluff before shit hits the fan.


	26. The Ugliness, It Seeps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of torture and incest.

Dr. Leonid Pavel has nothing to do but sit and wait for the world to end.

Wherever he's been relocated to is cold. Not the numbing cold of the mountain hideout but something closer and wetter. He would bet it was somewhere underground. Somewhere heavily populated, even, if the faint rushing of water was any indication. These were the only details he could manage in-between the texture of his food, heavy sleeping and occasionally idling through half-filled notebook pages.

Isolation hadn't broke him. Torture hadn't broke him, though it certainly wasn't for lack of effort and, if he was being entirely honest with himself, it was only a matter of time until its effects would make themselves clear. The reactor vanishing under mysterious circumstances and leaving everything in disarray, though? Even he couldn't have predicted that. Bane's men had kept the details off-limits, but the fact he was somewhere new, suddenly had little to do _and_ the tension that marked each mercenary's step became more pronounced by the second meant something had gone seriously wrong. What that meant for _him_ was as hazy and foreboding as everything else.

The scientist had woken up to a hail of snow, Barsad injured and Salim bleeding out. Even in his groggy state it had been one of the few times he actually felt something other than disgust and fear. Bane's right-hand man had always been civil to him, even kind -- Pavel could tell from the beginning he was also a father and he had hoped, however irrationally, he could inform him about the status of his family during the first few days of his kidnapping. While it had proven a fruitless effort over the weeks (he would not admit to having been gone for months, not yet), Barsad took great care to make sure he was comfortable and well-accommodated. Once he brought him what appeared to be handmade baklava after an exhausting evening of comparing notes. Rubio had been another story entirely and he was more than a little glad the man was (apparently) out of the picture.

All he had left were his small pile of papers, spare clothes and a few of his cleaning supplies. That _and_ the existential fear about whoever was capable of pulling the rug out from under Bane -- this was the very man who had successfully conducted the suicidal plan of tearing a plane in half in _mid-air_. Pavel didn't have time to look up the man's resume, but he could ascertain a few guesses as to what he had done over the years to gain such a skill set.

He feared Bane would take his anger over whatever was going on out on him. That even his terrifying, methodical calm would snap under the pressure and turn him into the recipient, unique scientific knowledge and tenuous health be damned. If anything the man seemed even more detached when he visited his little room days later. However day was measured in this cold, wet place.

"Your stalling has reaped a rare reward, Dr. Pavel." The masked man says matter-of-factly through the muffled confines of his mask. "It would behoove you to make good use of it."

Pavel curls his fingers in remembrance. They're still faintly purple from the last interrogation session. The man had strapped electric wires beneath his nails, sour little shocks that had his body shivering uncontrollably in a matter of seconds -- it reminded him of when he had become sick as a boy back in his hometown, an illness that left him stiff and keening for days on end. For someone so brutal Bane was incredibly restrained, always hinting at something far worse just around the corner. He supposed that was the major difference that separated him from the average terrorist, though his bloodlust was par for the course. During his wilder moments he wished the man would simply get it over with.

"Wherever it's gone to..." He starts, voice hoarse from exhaustion. "...it stands little chance of being converted without my help." It wasn't entirely true -- he was far from the only scientist in his field, but it was _still_ a small and highly specialized one. He wasn't about to give up the only card in his deck. Bane doesn't seem at all startled he's figured out what's happened behind-the-scenes.

"Finding a replacement has been time-consuming, yes." Pavel's stomach sinks with a leaden weight. "It would be easier for many should you simply comply."

"Twenty years."

"Hm?"

"I have spent _twenty_ years studying fusion reactions." He can feel panic's cold hands around his heart. "Even my own colleagues didn't show-"

"Yes, you were the top in your field." He says, folding his arms. There was no reason to lie anymore. The truth was out and anti-climactic in the cold little room. "But even a mountaintop must crumble and make way for another peak."

"Then if they know what's good for them they'll also sit on their hands and do _nothing_." There's no bravery in the statement. He's exhausted and long since convinced he'll die entire countries away from his family. "You self-righteous murderers with your arrogant ideals. You fight for _nothing_. Nothing but an easier and messier way to die. For all you wax poetic about Gotham being a destructive force, you and the city are _perfect_ for one another."

Bane quietly observes his outburst in the meager light of the doorway. There's a weak satisfaction in finally letting out the ice that had settled into his bones and almost froze him solid. That, at the very least, he could die with his head held high. Even he, the quiet and overworked scientist from Izhevsk, hadn't caved to a terrorist. They could break him. Peel his skin off and leave his red body in the sun for the birds. But he wouldn't give them a bomb to inevitably lay some ill-fated city or small country to waste.

Then his conviction shakes when he sees something small and square in Bane's hands.

"You've been given a chance at redemption. Like most of your ilk, you squander it in favor of continued delusion." He sounds distant. "I have been wrong before...but I fear it's not often."

Somehow he knows Bane is holding photos of his family. Probably recent, something somehow taken within the past few weeks. The man had deliberately said nothing about them the many, many days he's been in captivity. Deflected any questions he had as to their safety. Didn't even shrug when asked if they were alive. Pavel was given absolutely zero reason to believe anything but the utter worst. That they had met their end at his hands or perhaps the hands of his followers. That he had been holding out for the privilege of returning home to a trio of corpses.

His Shoreh. He can see her brilliant hazel eyes in his mind's eye, how her teeth flash white in the weak sunlight when they walk down the path by their summer home. His lovely little Darya, still chubby with baby fat and squirming with energy in his arms. His now-born Alexander, probably so tiny and taking after his mother's beauty. There are no more biting words or temporary rushes of a fool's courage. He stares wordlessly at the man's hands as he shuffles through them, brows furrowed in a damning display of sympathy.

"They've grown."

Pavel's voice barely touches the silence.

" _Please..._ "

Bane's dark eyes flick up from the photos. As merciless as ever.

"Perhaps the free time will allow you to ruminate on the countless families that grew ill from your clean energy experiments, Dr. Pavel. How the nature of photos grows ever more acute when they're all some have left. My sympathy has long since been shorn by scientists and inventors, your toy projects and bloody consequences."

He wants to cross the room and claw the photos from his hand like a rabid animal. Instead he sits, dejected, and watches the man push them delicately back into the pocket of his coat.

"While you continue to reach your epiphany..." He says as he rises to his feet. "...I will continue to right your wrongs."

\--

Sometimes he wonders if the sky remembers the color blue. The endless grey is choking, almost oppressive, and he's heard stories of entire years Gotham has been without more than a peek beyond stormclouds, constant rains and heavy fog. Perhaps this was one of the many elements that influenced Gothamites' unique brand of hardy and dreary. These thoughts occupy him as he waits for Talia to meet him in a secluded lot near Gotham's primary airport. The mercenaries that flank her double as everyday bodyguards, all but invisible to the average eye as they stand by the car and maintain their stature even in the solitude.

"It's been too long." Even through his mask he can catch a hint of her perfume, something strong enough to sting his eyes. "Metropolis did her best to keep you from me."

"Metropolis doesn't have Gotham's bite." Bane responds as he strokes the cold from her cheek. "She would have to try much harder than this."

"Gotham won't have to do much at all." Her eyes glint eagerly. "The delay gave me more time to engage with the replacement I found. It took a bit more schmoozing than I would have liked, but fortunately for us he is just as power-hungry as the rest." She chuckles lightly. "A touch of Sauvignon Blanc in my quarters certainly didn't hurt."

It was a lesson she learned at a very young age -- do whatever it takes. The scientist might develop irrational feelings for her once their temporary alliance is over. He would deal with it when it came.

"Conor Walsh. A nuclear physicist who has been working on alternative energy solutions near the Isles. He doesn't have Pavel's experience, not quite, but their resumes are startlingly similar. Singh would have been a better option technically, but the man is a notorious bleeding heart." Bane keeps his face carefully neutral. "Walsh, however...he has long since felt his efforts unappreciated by the cities he's been working to improve. He was all too eager for the out I offered him."

A scientist who didn't know he was being convinced to help turn Gotham to rubble. Talia knew cruelty like the back of her hand. He wanted to believe it was because of the hard luck she found herself in at a young age and _not_ because she had taken a liking for the act, but Blake's recording had never quite stopped playing in the back of his mind.

"He has 'unfinished business' to attend to first back home..." She says with an irritated flip of her hair. "Then he will see us and make sure we finish our work for Gotham."

 _'How do you lie so easily to me?'_ Bane thinks as she gives his hand a squeeze and asks about where he plans on taking her. _'Where did the lies begin? Where will they end? At least, for now, you have indirectly helped me keep city safe.'_

"As far away as possible."

He nods to his men. They immediately return to the car and make their way out, leaving them alone in the mist. Talia's garb isn't entirely practical and he pulls out a spare coat as well as her helmet from his motorcycle's pack, waiting until she's comfortably settled behind him before starting his bike. Something tingles in the back of his mind in-between the creak of the seat and the cough of the engine, Talia's arms around his waist an echo of Blake's firm grip. He gives himself an inward shake before pulling out and heading in the opposite direction -- somehow, thinking of the man bolsters and shakes his resolve.

Bane wasn't interested in shielding Blake from his own shame. He was still soured by the man's insistence on maintaining ties with James Gordon. The detective had even _noted_ the Commissioner may not survive another encounter with him. His tug-of-war between pessimism and optimism remained one of his more unpredictable qualities -- John no doubt believed he could find an ideal solution even as his options continued to shrink around him. Believing in others' potential even as they squandered it. Foolhardy. Like usual. It would put others in danger if he didn't check it.

He grips the bike handles a little harder than usual as he makes a turn and climbs up a steep hill.

It doesn't stop Bane from wanting to find time for him once he finished up with today's business, nor did it stop him from wondering what the Swithin's boys thought of their newest companion.

A light downpour meets them when they reach the top. It's a quiet drive across Gotham's surrounding plains and hills. Winter settled over the city with an almost supernatural presence, while the outside world was starting to show hesitant clusters of green amid the gray. It would be a while yet before spring made itself clear. Even then, the gray may never truly leave.

"It's been a while since we traveled like this." She says over the wind. "It'd be tempting to never stop." Bane nods his agreement.

The shack is small and humble, once a meager place to hold old farming supplies before he and his men had stumbled upon it during their first approach to Gotham. With no apparent owner he had taken care to clean it out early on, transforming it into an escape he and Talia had indulged in more and more rarely as of late. There's a makeshift fireplace, now filled with fresh wood alongside a kettle of tea and a small pot settled beside the stones. Thick blankets, a wooden table and two chairs fill out the room and give it an almost homely appeal. It's not an overly furbished space, not by the strictest definition, but they've been used to surviving on far less. He can see her eyes go hazy with appreciation when they walk in and simultaneously shake condensation from their shoulders.

"Relax." He says as he pulls off his gloves and folds them on the old table, draping his coat on the old chair nearby. She obeys with uncharacteristic immediacy -- either she's truly tired or she's humoring his small efforts.

For the next few hours there's no such thing as Gotham. No such thing as the League or Miranda or Bane. Like snow they've drifted down to where they belong, guided by the breeze to their own little corner away from the rest of the world. It's as close as he can get to their younger days traveling the world, from spire to city to plain, stopping only when the elements grew tempestuous or the roads treacherous. Soon the fire is roaring and her heels are paired in a far corner, curled by the fire and watching it grow.

"I remember eating a dish flaked with gold for the first time." She says over the growing crackle. "It was when the Wayne Board threw a welcoming committee for my new position. A rare breed of salmon, dressed up with microgreens like a painting and framed with sliced lemons. White linen and sparkling glasses stretching down the table as far as the eye could see. I had never seen anything like it." The characteristic _pop_ of embers flare in the corner of his vision. "Even then...I have never felt richer than when I'm in front of an open flame."

Bane pulls out a small bag of foodstuffs from his pack and starts organizing them one-by-one on the table. "I remember when you called yourself the Fire Keeper. You were so small." He replies with a soft chuckle. "Holding coals in your hands to toughen them."

"Yes!" She laughs, looking at her delicately manicured nails in the warm light. "I had wanted callouses like yours. So impatient. I thought I could make them overnight."

It was a hard memory to forget. It was well before he wore his mask almost constantly, when scent hadn't yet become a foreign sensation and he used it alongside sight, touch and hearing to navigate his dark, cramped world. The smell of her burning flesh had made him sick even before he saw the raw red that spread across her tiny hands. Behnam had been stunned at her naivete, having never met any child before her, and admonished her until tears had coursed dirty rivers down her cheeks. She didn't cry from the pain, but his words had another effect entirely.

"You used your shawl to bandage my hands. The only one you had." Her voice softens. "I felt so guilty. The pit was always freezing." She prods the wood with the poker, encouraging the flame to settle over the untouched areas. He thinks of Blake huddled in front of his fireplace all those nights ago. How he had asked...

"I was used to the cold." Bane replies over the rhythmic _clip-clap_ of knife on wood. "I knew little else."

"True." She concedes. "We can grow used to almost anything."

"Your mother had a way of igniting a fire with words alone."

She doesn't respond. He sees she's wrapped one of the blankets around her shoulders when he moves from the vegetables to start the tea. The fire's light sculpts her cheeks and nose out in soft orange, as regal as a sunset.

Talia looks so much like her. She may have inherited Ra's' blue eyes, but everything from the way she held herself to the curve of her jaw was a mirror image of the woman who graced the pit like a storm taken human shape. As if hearing his thoughts she leans over and digs in his coat pockets, pulling out the thread he keeps there and settling it onto her lap. Rain starts to fall outside, a gentle trickle that soon fills the small space with the scent of wet earth. A petrichor's lullaby that sinks him deeper into memory.

_"You're too harsh. You handle the thread like a slab of meat."_

_He still didn't fully understand her accent. It was something he'd never heard before, a wavering inflection that struck his ears and left them stinging. It likely had something to do with her status -- while she came from the same area as many of the prisoners, she had been far more privileged. It wasn't just in the clothes on her back or the jewelry she still wore around her neck. It was in her stance. The way she looked around her like the pit was truly something she'd never encountered before._

_With a grunt he tempers his grip, so loose the fabric almost slips from his fingers. It helps, momentarily, but soon he feels his fingers tightening and the pattern losing itself in the strain. With a soft sigh she reaches over to move his hands into the correct position, stopping halfway when he flinches and glares at her. The sun may have passed above the circle many times since she first arrived, but his desire to be touched hadn't changed whatsoever._

_"Like me."_

_He's content to watch her and mimic her, even when it still eludes him how she can make her fingers move with such meticulous grace. They're like spider legs, utterly delicate and precise as they weave thread into a physical web. The potential of such a careful touch still haunted him and he had never failed to meet her at her cell when she started allowing him, in-between her nursing Talia, conferring with the doctor and resting. Sometimes he saw her writing by candlelight, though it seemed to be the only act that taxed her -- she would shake so hard she could hardly hold the pen in her hands, once dissolving into tears and earning the uncomfortable attention of the others._

Bane adds the finishing touches and wipes the excess from his hands. The stew has already grown thick and hearty, far from fancy yet invigorating with its heavy broth. Talia leans forward and sniffs the pot eagerly. Kneeling by the fire to check its intensity he gives her shoulder an affectionate pat, earning a soft smile in return.

_One day Talia was awake to watch them. She was just learning to walk, holding onto her mother's dress or the bars in a constant attempt to steady her clumsy legs. Remaining in the cell to keep up appearances meant it wasn't long before the right corner had become co-owned -- it was furthest from the bars and the light, furthest from the clutter of things Talia's mother had been allowed to bring with her. For him it was a reclamation of control in a life that had become a little different and alarmingly so._

_The lesson had been more successful. Her redundant teachings had finally begun to click in his mind and make sense, an epiphany as sudden and invigorating as birdcall. Shapes formed where there had only been tangles. Elegant curves where there had been disorder. He had been so deeply engrossed in the burgeoning pattern forming in the string he neglected her quiet approach until her hand was on his arm, picking at the scars that broke the skin._

_In his shock he shoved her away, with only pure luck a blanket had been there to catch her fall. It was one of only two times he had seen Talia's mother lose her temper._

_The sun would pass overhead many times before she let him into the cell again. It would pass by overhead many more times until Lael would ask him the one question he never thought she'd ask._

There's little to do except wait for the stew to complete itself. He idly mops sweat from his collar, the small room already close with heat and the heavy fog from outside. Talia lifts up her blanket to free her legs and move up against his chest. She moves her nose against his neck, an uncomfortable pantomime of Blake's open affection. Bane, even now, wasn't overly familiar with social norms concerning a parent and child, but there was a virulent sense of wrong whenever she moved in such a way. He still doesn't push her off, keeping his gaze on the gently simmering pot. The vegetables are dark with color, the base he prepared earlier creating a creamy consistency that grew thicker by the minute.

"You don't talk about her much." She murmurs, twining her fingers in his hand. Bane studies her delicate hand, how it almost vanishes beneath his own.

"Old ghosts should rest."

"I wish I remembered more of her." Her voice grows quiet. "Besides..."

She doesn't need to say. Lael's untimely death was forever etched into memory, not even time able to scrub away the ugly details that carved her final moments. Talia touches something in her pocket. He wonders if it's the knife. The pot begins to boil over and he reaches over to remove it from the stand.

"Eat with me."

He knew she would ask. He digs for the two syringes in his pocket, pulling out the one filled with a specialized painkiller that would mimic the one in his mask, though due to its liquid properties it would take a few minutes to travel through his bloodstream and take effect. Bane unbuckles the mask and turns off its inner workings, rubbing his cheeks where the straps had long since worn grooves into his skin. Waits until his body starts to shiver with the lack of drug before he pushes up his shirt and injects into three different spots on his back. Grips the floor and bows his head so she doesn't have to see the agony twisting his face.

He loathes the lack of control. Each twitch is an ugly reminder of who he'd be without the mask, without the constant aid of painkillers and the ritualistic therapy. Only Talia could see him like this. Even then...

"How are you feeling?" She asks softly, eyes wandering along the face she rarely saw anymore. The numbness begins to set in. It was an advanced formula, one that focused primarily on the area it was injected in and kept its surrounding effects negligible. Only a faint tingle sets into his scarred lips and he rolls his jaw experimentally. Talia pulls back as Bane reaches over to dose the stew into small bowls. Specialized drinks and simple broths made him miss the sensation of simply chewing.

Talia reaches into her pack and pulls out a small bottle. "I know you're not overly fond of wine." She says with a smirk. "But indulge me."

With a sigh he accepts a small amount in his glass, brows quirked with wry humor. "Someday I will have to draw the line with you."

She covers her mouth in a laugh. "We'll see."

Bane drinks slowly. Being drunk, even a little, is not quite like being under the haze of his drug. It relaxes him overmuch, dulling his edge and blurring his senses. Even knowing they're well-hidden and slowly being wrapped in the confines of a storm does little to cut into his instinct to remain vigorous at all times. Talia has no such concern, drinking deeply and laughing loudly as she details a play she saw in Metropolis. One about a farming couple who find an orphaned child in their field one night, having no choice but to hide him once they found out he had superhuman strength.

"He reminded me a little of you." She says in-between generous sips.

"The part where he broke a plane in half or the part where he fired lasers from his eyes?" He responds mildly, lips twitching in a shadow of a smile.

Time passes by unheeded, both the rain and the fire dwindling down to almost nothing. The thickness in the air suggests the rain, at least, will be back soon.

The fire is put out and the excess scraps of food tossed for the birds. The drug hasn't quite left his system, but it feels good to have the mask on his face again. The drive back to Gotham is slow and careful -- Talia had finished a few glasses and was valiantly attempting to hide their aftereffects, cheek resting heavy on his shoulder all the way. As if acknowledging this the clouds part for a rare peek of the sun when he rounds into Gotham again.

Barsad is waiting for them. The man had insisted on joining him despite his wounds, still unwilling to trust such a delicate task to anyone else. Bane didn't blame him, not with his inherent sense of duty, but he watches carefully for any signs he should be in bed than on his feet. He doesn't like the way he looks at Talia, even though it would seem nothing more than a disimpassioned glance to the casual observer.

"Don't push yourself overmuch." Bane grunts as he gets off the bike, helping Talia to her feet. She rubs her eyes wearily as they make their way into her suite.

"I'll try not to." He responds calmly, though his voice betrays a hint of pain. He remains outside as Bane walks her inside and up to her room. The glittering floors and bleached walls leer at him from all sides. Testing his composure. He shuts the door behind him and watches his daughter gain her bearings, shrugging off her coat and feeling the moisture clinging to her hair.

"It will be a while before we can do this again." He says as he observes the chandelier dangling from the ceiling, decadent and excessive. Bane feels more than hears her walk up behind him.

"Hopefully soon." Her fingers trace up his back, so faint as to be unnoticeable. "I've thought a lot about what you said, back in the storm drain. About finding my happiness. I originally thought the concept would be forever elusive to me...but there has always been one element that has never faded."

He turns just as she wraps arms around his shoulders, kissing the front of his mask before moving to where skin is visible beneath the straps. His voice doesn't seem to work.

"Talia...?"

"That element has always been _you_." Her breath leaves hot marks on his skin in-between each word. "I could never be at my happiest without you."

It's wrong. Completely and utterly. She must feel him cringe because she leans back, just enough to observe his face, still clinging to him as if he could suddenly vanish in a plume of smoke.

"I don't understand." She presses, voice still a touch slurred from the alcohol. "Do you have someone else?"

He doesn't say John's name. He doesn't quite need to. She can see something in his eyes, something betraying, because her voice cracks as if her heart's broken.

"No one will never be enough for you." Her eyes are glistening. "You _know_ this."

The hurt twisting her face cuts through his chest and lays him open bare. It almost makes him surrender, right then and there, to let her do whatever she pleases. After all, she's already owned his life. His future. He owed his very _existence_ to the act of mercy she brought back with her to the pit. Why should she not lay claim to his body, too? He was nothing more than a specter, after all. One that wanted to leave a positive impact on the world before his inevitable, bloody death.

_"I know you don't make promises you can't keep." A flutter of vulnerability, lashes against his cheek and the peek of his tanned fingers in oil-black hair. "I gotta remember now is good enough."_

Like waking from a nightmare he gives himself a hard shake. Bane pushes her back and away, holding firm her shoulders as well as the nausea building in his stomach. His Talia. His shadow. He would sooner suffer Bruce's hands on her than his own. So _much_ he's swept under the rug. Found a way to excuse or downplay in his love for her. He did nothing to quash these inappropriate feelings. She avoids his gaze, ashamed and angry at his rejection. He would find a way to make it up to her. Somehow. When all this was over.

"I could never be what you seek. Nor would I." He strokes her shoulder with his thumb in an attempt to soften the blow of his words. "I have died for you. I would a thousand times over. You mean everything to me, Talia, and so does your happiness." He takes in a slow breath. "How could I give you such a wish..." She had started to relax in his grip, only to grow rigid when he continues, "...when the price of your happiness is too high?"

"... _What?_ " She tries to pull back from him now, a quick and angry motion, but she's unable to move even an inch.

"Talia."

"What do you even mean by that?"

"Where did you put it?"

"You're _hurting_ me."

"The reactor."

"What _about_ the reactor-"

" _Enough!_ " He watches the blood drain from her face. "I know what you plan for Gotham." His voice grows low and quiet with shame. "I _have_ known. For far too long. But I couldn't believe you, of all people, would be capable of such misplaced hate. Such _destruction._ I thought I raised you better. I thought..."

Words fail him. Her eyes flick back and forth, searching his face. Perhaps for weakness. Maybe another lie. Rage curls hot in his chest and it takes a monumental effort not to shake her. To think...her desire to use John Blake for information ended up being the loose cog. Something she, nor he, could have ever predicted. His world may as well be upside down for all the stability he feels in the moment. 

She doesn't lie or wheedle. Doesn't even attempt a cry for help. She must know whatever he's found out is irrefutable, because all she says is...

"...Now you know."

" _Why?_ "

"Because Gotham has never been _worth_ saving." She grips his jacket, some attempt, he imagines, of getting through to him. "For how many decades has this city terrorized the continent? How often has it laid to waste the efforts of good and terrible people alike? I, too, thought I could pick up where my father left off and succeed where he couldn't. I know better now. I know _better._ The only future Gotham has is being reduced to rubble so something new can grow."

"You are not Ra's. _We_ are not Ra's. You are more than his delusion. We left the League precisely because we were more!"

"You fool yourself." Talia almost spits. "The League made us who we are. We can no more escape its influence than the night can flee the dark."

"You would kill innocent people? _Children?_ " Bane does shake her now, a desperate motion to dislodge whatever was poisoning his daughter. Her hair spills inelegantly around her face, but the chill doesn't leave her gaze.

"Of course not." She responds curtly, even as vague and genuine confusion still marks her features. "I would spare them and anyone else worthy of-"

"My apologies." His interrupts with venom. "You neglected to mention this when you attempted to murder the detective."

Then her eyes widen. Just so. Just enough to confirm what he needs to do next.

"I will find it." He says as he presses her against the door. "I will _save_ Gotham." He continues as he pulls out the other syringe in his pocket. "...and you."

Bane holds her as she struggles in his grip, trying to wrest away from point digging into her arm. Closes his eyes when she curses his name with progressively tired breaths. Barsad doesn't say a word when he walks in a few minutes later, careful to avoid his gaze as he gathers Talia's limp body from him and notifies back-up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, this perfectionist cycle does me no favors. Going to challenge it to a duel and use my Blue Eyes White Dragon when it least _expects._
> 
> The next few chapters are already mostly done, so those'll be uploaded sooner than usual. I also need to update my tags. One question: would it be helpful for anyone for me to create summaries for some of the heavier chapters? Even though I'll be exploring more difficult subject matter, I want this to be as accessible as possible.


	27. Dry

Gothamites weren't prone to public displays of a good mood. It was customary to keep hands in pockets (what was seen as suspicious elsewhere was pragmatic in a city that was under a crisis every other month) and a stern look at all times. A person looks _too_ happy and they run the risk of appearing a loon, that of which were in increasingly high supply. Too miserable? No such thing. John Blake all but tosses this conventional wisdom to the wind when he walks out of the small tech firm, grinning like it's his birthday and he doesn't mind aging. After all, it was hard not to when the job interview he sorely needed actually went well. About as well as it _could_ with him being sorely out of _practice_ , anyway.

The small voice in the back of his mind tells him he shouldn't be _too_ comfortable with winging things, but he soundly ignores it in favor of a small victory and treats himself to a burrito at his favorite food truck. His resume, even a little old, had impressed them enough to land him a few assignments to be completed within a week -- debugging, repair work, nothing he couldn't feasibly handle. He hasn't burned through his savings yet, but with a new pet and car repairs already starting to make a mockery of his wallet he was overdue. He winces when he eats too fast and remembers he might have to start paying off Finn's interest if he doesn't finish up the rest of _his_ payments.

Finding somewhere isolated (but no less cold) to sit down, he pulls out his phone and calls Barbara to thank her -- his new boss was an acquaintance of one of her computer science teachers and she had been diligent in tossing him available job offerings whenever she found them. Her selflessness still startled him at times. He makes another mental note in-between punching numbers to tell her to take it easy after exams.

His mind wanders in-between each ring and the lack of progress he's made attempting to make a dent in the apathy surrounding Old Gotham, East End and the Browery. He'd taken it upon himself to contact the mayor as well as a few representatives to spread the word, making sure to keep his anecdotes _just_ vague enough as not to put anyone in danger -- the obligation to help his neighbor out hadn't faded in the least, even as he still waffled back and forth on the best course of action. It felt like throwing darts on a board with a blindfold on. One had given him some PR nonsense that they were 'doing all they could'. Another had just hung up.

Blake frowns when she doesn't pick up and hits the call button again. He couldn't ask Gordon for help. Shit, he couldn't even update him. Not yet. Not when Bane had yet to update _him_ on what, exactly, he'd done with Talia. The man's distance over the days had become chilling and Blake has to remind himself that he's a busy guy. Definitely not getting cold feet and letting his daughter continue to plan the city's demise. _Definitely_ not vanishing under the cover of night to somewhere far away or being shot between the eyes during a protest and transported to a morgue for study or something. Then again, maybe it was his fault for not being proactive and just calling him up to ask. Barbara picks up the line right when he starts to fidget.

"Hey. Just got back from the interview." He says with a barely contained sigh of relief. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

" _No, no, you're fine. Just...you're fine._ " A few scattered noises in the background, then she's back on the line. " _How'd it go?_ "

"I got the job. So, quite well." He chuckles. "Thanks for picking people who were desperate enough to overlook my bad haircut."

" _Pfft. What haircut?_ "

"Exactly."

" _Well, it wasn't exactly hard._ " He can hear a faint, rhythmic scratching now -- he must've caught her while studying. " _There have been a lot of lay offs recently. Lots of businesses not meeting their monthly figures. That or people straight-up quitting and packing their bags for Metropolis. I had a classmate who told me the other day even a full-time job with benefits wasn't worth walking through two and a half riots just to get to her firm. Someone threw a bottle at her!_ "

Blake makes a noncommital noise that he's listening. Barbara snorts. " _Well, don't sound too worried._ "

"Come on. It's just a bottle."

" _Yeah, but a lot of people are going through this. Roads being blocked and shit being broken when all these protesters could find another way around it._ " Blake chooses his tone carefully around the sensitive topic.

"Can you really blame them, Barb? People are pissed. They're just trying to get results and it's not like the Gotham police department or our mayors are giving them any. People are losing their jobs. They're living in squalor. You know I'd turn the entire world upside down if anyone threatened my kids and...well, I'm always prepared for that to happen, what with Swithin's always on the verge of being defunded."

" _Doesn't mean they have to pick on everyone who walks by._ " He can hear the conflict in her voice. " _Though...it'd only be fair to mention my other classmate...overheard him talking about being potentially hauled in for not being able to pay off the rest off his loans. Didn't get any grants._ "

Blake is grateful the burrito drowns out the anger that threatens to swallow him up at that. "That's messed up."

" _Yeah...I...sort of see what you mean. I mean...my grandfather tries so hard to make things right. I want to believe things will change eventually, but it's hard when they just...don't seem to. I don't know if all the destruction is the right way to go, though. What do you think about all this?_ "

"I think if the department didn't want cars turned over and windows broken they should've thought twice before blowing up buildings and throwing people in jail for twenty years on minor possession." He responds lightly. She was selfless, yes. Hard-working, definitely. But naive. She was lucky enough to grow up pretty stable near Crest Hill's decadent 'burbs, with the protection of an entire police force, to boot. Even as she studied to get her degree in forensics to follow somewhat in Gordon's footsteps, she still had a lot to learn when it came to actual justice.

Wasn't like she was the only one.

" _If I didn't know any better I'd say you're watching a lot of Bane's speeches._ " The scratching stops, replaced by a soft sipping sound. " _He's got more stage presence than a stage magician in Amusement Mile._ "

"Ha. I'm guessing you're not a fan?"

 _"I still think he's got doppelgangers. There's just no way he's been avoiding capture without the help of multiple people behind the mask._ " He's tickled by how wrong and how right she is without even knowing it.

"And if he's a, uh, one-man show?"

" _Then...well._ " Barbara lets out an almost impressed sigh. " _He'd be kind of amazing. At least, in that regard._ " She pauses, then continues rapidfire. " _Hey, it's not too soon to talk about him like this, right? I'm sorry. I know he-_ "

"No, you're fine. Don't worry about it." He keeps his voice low anyway, because while there were more Bane supporters in the area than dissenters he wouldn't take his chances. "I knew what I was signing up for. It's not like it came completely out of left field."

" _Seriously. I don't know how you do it, Blake. I don't know how you came out of all that in one piece._ "

 _'Well, I wasn't exactly the sympathetic party.'_ He thinks, shoveling the rest of the burrito down and tossing the wrapper as she continues. " _I think grandpa is taking what you're saying to heart, though. He told me the other day he's been bringing up alternatives for the task force, what with the department almost exclusively focusing on Bane lately. Turns out they're thinking of switching it up, but not quite how he hoped._ " She suddenly sounds uncomfortable and her voice lowers to a whisper. " _I shouldn't be telling you this, not with it still up in the air, but...they're thinking of-_ "

His stomach churns guiltily. "Hey, woah, it's fine. I don't want you to get in trouble. I can always ask Gordon for an update."

" _Except you two barely talk anymore."_

"I'll figure it out."

" _You know, Amir was onto something back at the gallery_." She says after a moment's silence. " _We could really use another Batman right about now._ "

A sharp bark cuts right through whatever he had to say. Blake turns around and shushes the source sharply, only to receive a petulant _yap_ in response. He was going to have to check his door for another noise complaint tomorrow.

" _That the new dog?_ " She switches gears delightedly. " _I can't wait to see her!_ "

"And I can't wait for the training to sink in." He grumbles. He makes plans to see the young woman sometime soon and promptly hangs up to go give Trevor the sternest look he can muster...which soon dissolves into laughter when she jumps on his chest and tries to lick his face off. "Criminy, your breath _stinks_. Going to have to buy you those toothbrush treats or whatever they call them."

He's kept her at his apartment for a few nights since Swithin's wasn't yet dog-proofed, which he chalked up to his incredible foresight. In fact, it _also_ left him in the position of figuring out a way of having all the boys contribute to her new name without feeling left out again, so he had taken one of Reilly's old hats ( _"You laugh now, but they were considered high fashion back in my day."_ he groused when the boys snickered) and filled it with all their name suggestions during his last visit. Even though they were anonymous to keep things as straightforward as possible, it was pretty obvious who chose who when they sat in the living room after dinner and watched him shake it.

It was an...attempted democracy. Frida and Jemisin were likely Amir's choices. Snowball _could_ have been Joel's, but could just as easily have been Finn's (though he insists he didn't enter). Balto was a rather funny pick and Jay was all too eager to admit he wanted her to pull a sleigh next time they went to the park. Considering her propensity for bolting at the nearest opportunity, he thought that might not be the best idea. Blake had entered in a name based after a famous sprinter of the past century, receiving nothing more than a collective look of confusion and one rather rude expression from Emanuel.

It had soon dissolved into a classic Swithin's debate, points and counterpoints tossed like confetti until the room would be more easily confused for a howler monkey's nest than a boys' home. Reilly, interestingly enough, had been the one to break the cycle.

"Trevor was St. Swithin's grandson." Shrugging as if he didn't care either way. "Could be a way to make her truly feel at home here."

"Isn't that a boy's name?" Tiya said while scratching his head.

"Some people say _your_ name isn't a boy's name." Jay corrected.

"I like it!" Joel had crowed. And they were sold.

Trevor responded to her new name about as well as she responded to anything else -- with extreme enthusiasm and the attention span of a cat high on catnip. Blake stuffs on his shoes and throws on his coat, yawning as he takes her out to go to the bathroom. The cold air is a nice reprieve from the small apartment and he can feel all his thoughts rising to the surface as they meander down the wide streets. Faint anxieties, the leftover warmth of success, the encroaching crawl of loneliness.

That selfish part of him wants a little slice of time with the man alone, world be damned. To feel his calloused fingers dragging sensation down his spine, to hear the smokiness in his voice when his barriers were incrementally lowered. It was hard sometimes not to wish his life was a touch more normal and moments like the one they shared within and atop St. Swithin's could happen more regularly. Then again, normal was an incredibly relative thing. Neither of them had ever really fit the bill, Bane least of all, and they wouldn't have even met otherwise.

That whole fate thing. He wasn't a believer yet, but it didn't stop him from thinking about it.

_"Have you ever been with anyone?"_

_"Many people."_

_"I meant a relationship."_

_"Romantic?"_

_"Yes."_

_"No."_

_He doesn't ask if the man wants that. The hesitation is ridiculous and he knows it's because he's afraid to hear the answer that could put a pin in the fantasy. Hell if he wasn't feeling a little loopy after seeing the man getting to know his boys. It hadn't been flawless, but it was...shit, it was something he dreamt about from time-to-time._

_Maybe he didn't need a white-picket fence to complete the set-up, but adding to his family was always on the back of his mind. He wondered if Bane had ever thought of the same. If he even could with a background like his. Damn it, no, that was part of the problem. Thinking family was something on certain people could have. Blake licks his lips slowly, trying to sort the words in his head and form them into actual verbal questions as Bane runs a casual hand along his thigh, then trickles fingers up his hip to his side. Brows furrowed and eyes flicking back and forth as he studies his hesitation._

_"I'm...sorry. It's not important." He chuckles, humorlessly, then moves lips to his cheek. Bane's thumb caresses his hip in response. Quiet. Listening._

_"I know you don't make promises you can't keep..." He finally says, shivering a little when Bane runs fingers through his hair and makes words feel harder than normal. "...I gotta remember now is good enough."_

Thinking back only serves to make him miss the man. He chuckles, suddenly, and quickly sobers himself when he sees a neighbor walk past. It was still a little funny that he was missing _Bane_ , of all people. Another smaller part of him, the one he regularly pounds into submission, wheedles he should cut it off (whatever _it_ even was) and keep their relationship professional. As much as he could with the guy being a defector from a centuries-old assassin league and him a wanna-be detective with no badge and no certification.

He recalls how Bane had dodged his (admittedly vaguely put) question. About why he had chosen him to join the League. Why he chose him...at all. His brain reminds him the man flat-out said he showed potential back when they first met. That it was one of the few things that kept him from joining the evergrowing pile of broken necks. To his shock his gut tells him potential took on many forms and he could've been overlooking something rather nice in his sea of self-doubt. Now if _that_ wasn't...kind of nice to feel for once.

"I'm not taking the easy way out." He mutters to nobody in particular. "Even if I really don't have a clue where I'm going." Trevor grins up at him before pawing at the ground, digging for something only she can see. A simple bathroom run had turned into a long, cold walk that was starting to turn his fingers numb. Evening is starting to disappear and he can just make out the first few feet in front of him as he makes his way back around the complex. At least it'd get out her energy. He pauses in mid-yawn at the sound of crunching gravel.

Trevor's ears are pricked forward and she's sniffing the air. Blake peers ahead of him and tries to carve out the figure approaching them. "Hey. Chin-Mae, right?" He says, hoping his smile shows in the dark. "How's your friend holding up?"

"Dry."

"What?"

She steps closer to the light near a porch and the expression on her face is enough to make his heart skip. Her eyes are round as plates and her hands are covered with dirt. He can just make out more dirt smeared on her blouse.

"She's sucked _dry_. All of us are." She gesticulates to nothing. "We had our fill and now we're all dried up, you know? What's the point. Who even cares?"

Blake holds the leash firm and sidles the other into his pocket. "What...are you talking about?"

"I _said. _" She snaps, her voice raising so suddenly as to make Trevor whine. "Why _bother_ when there's nothing left to drink? Glass half empty, half full!"__

He holds up his hands. "Look, calm down...I just-"

It happens all at once. One minute she's standing just a few feet away, speaking in tongues, the next minute she pulls out a knife and holds it to her neck. Before she can do anything with it he reacts, lunging forward and snatching her wrist. She tugs wildly, flailing with some madness his adrenaline-brain can't figure out. Trevor barks and yanks on the leash -- he'd completely forgotten it was wrapped around his wrist and it kills his balance, making him hit the ground.

"Give it _back!_ I need it! I need-" She shrieks when he tries to get to his knees, scratching at him with clawed hands. His hands are freezing, but not so cold he can't hold her at bay. A single wrong move and one of them could end up with a pierced kidney.

She's frantic, on some sort of manic energy, but he had experience on his side. The moment the knife is out of harm's way he risks kneeing her in the stomach, just enough to get her rolling off him in a coughing fit, and he flings the knife into a mound of snow. He scrabbles to his feet and promptly pins her to the ground. Lights have already begun to flicker around him.

"What the hell are you _doing?_ " Blake snaps as holds her firm. "Get ahold of yourself!" Only when the darkness melts away does he see she's crying. A flurry of voices kick up around him.

"What the hell is going on?" He hears someone yell, an older woman running down the staircase in her slippers and holding something heavy. He holds up a placating hand -- from her perspective it's probably looking a lot worse.

"Woah, relax. She just had an episode. That's all." _'Almost killed me, but I'm used to it.'_ "Get her some help. I don't know what's wrong, but I don't think she should be alone."

"But what happened?" His neighbor presses, soon joined by a family member or a roommate. "Why is she on the ground? Why is she crying?"

"Ooh, I know her. Chin-something, I think. She has friends in Old Gotham." Another says, as if it explained everything. "Think she was on one of them new, uh. What do they call it? Somethin' like crack." Blake opens his mouth to tell her he has no _damn_ clue what it is, that he wants to know, only to coldly realize the absence of barking. He pats his jeans uselessly, then looks around wildly. Trevor was gone.

"I should call someone-" One of them starts, only to stop when he rushes past them. "Wait, where are you going?!"

" _I'll explain later!_ " He yells over their cries of alarm. "Get her some help!"

He pushes through the growing crowd, even as he knows running doesn't look good, and races out of the complex. It's pitch black now but he doesn't have time to double back and grab a flashlight. If he loses this damn _dog_...

Blake runs for blocks, occasionally using his phone to peer into dark corners and alleys when he's not asking passerbys if they've seen her. He thanks his indirect luck she's a big, fluffy white mutt that doesn't blend in _whatsoever_ \-- he's given some vague directions by a couple chatting on their front steps and he follows as quickly as he can.

Nearly a half hour of jogging and crossing streets and he's found himself somewhere he hasn't been in a long time. The crumbling, antique buildings and swaying lanterns leave him momentarily disoriented, causing him to pause and observe his surroundings as best he can still heaving out each breath like it's going to kill him. The streets are much emptier, so much so he can actually hear the scuttle of trash on the sidewalk and the faint rumble of thunder in the distance. Something like smoke wafts on the breeze. For a few seconds Blake feels like the only person in the world.

Old Gotham. There's no time to ruminate over the orphanage he left behind or the places he got lost in. He immediately adjusts his stance, breath now under control and the faint buzz of endorphins making his legs tremble. It's empty as hell, which means he won't have trouble spotting her. He's debating the merit of calling out her name and attracting attention to himself when he sees a small group on the corner of the next street. He might as well.

"Excuse me!" He calls out. "Have any of you seen a-"

He goes stiff as a board when they flicker into nothingness.

"What the _hell..._ "

He scrubs his eyes with both hands and looks again. There was never anybody there, by the looks of it. He's not entirely superstitious, not really, but shit like this wasn't about to keep him a non-believer. He shakes himself and continues to walk down the cracked sidewalk.

"You're tired, Blake." He mutters. "That's all."

Lanterns creak plaintively in the growing breeze as he walks by. He thinks to himself how Old Gotham was considered by many to be just classy enough for its historic landmarks, but it clearly wasn't enough to get the actual residents the help they needed. Come to think of it, it's a little _too_ empty. He wonders if a curfew was implemented -- it wouldn't be the first time the Gotham police department put restrictions on a neighborhood already swimming in them. He looks around him and soon makes out a sign in the dark: "Lights Out At Ten: Gotham Police Department". Yet another reason to hurry along the sidewalk and hope he could find her before he got in trouble, legal or otherwise.

The detective sees another person, a young man, but has no clue if they're real or not. Even knowing the place is conspicuously bare he feels the sting of secondhand embarrassment if he's wrong again. They look at him, suddenly, and he moves on as quickly as he can without looking suspicious. It doesn't seem to be very effective, because more shadows proceed to trail in the corners of his vision.

"Just find her and get out." He whispers, suddenly paranoid, wanting nothing more than to leave. "She's gotta be around here somewhere. Probably chewing on more trash. Gonna have to tell Reilly to give the boys vacuuming duty so she doesn't get sick with that habit."

Minutes of wandering around and he's starting to itch. He makes his way down a narrow street and works up the nerve to knock on a few doors. Nobody answers. People are inside -- he can just make out the creak of floorboards -- but not so much as a peep. He moves to another house and freezes in mid-knock when he hears someone sobbing hysterically inside. Lights flick on automatically, but it's practically a ghost town.

The acrid sting of smoke is now starting to fill his nose. Even in the dark everything is hazier than normal, like a bizarre fog was creeping in and starting to make itself at home. There must be a fire nearby. The wind blows directly toward him, bringing a rush of hot air in its wake. As if compelled the specters outside his vision flicker and fade away. The animal part of his brain knows there's a connection, even as his legs jitter with unease.

"Don't fuck with me like this." He growls at the shadows, preferring irritation to fear. "Either show yourselves or piss off."

"Watch your language, Robin."

" _Wh..._ ".

Someone moving in front of him. Walking, but not seeming to go anywhere. His mother in her favorite gray peacoat, the one that always smelled like mothballs but she couldn't bear to throw out. His mouth goes as dry as paper. She's wearing that round white cap she wore to his...what was it again? He can't remember. It's been so long. She takes another not-step, as if gliding on air, and he realizes he has to go to _her_. He takes one step, then two, everything vaguely hazy like an encroaching buzz or the first few moments of waking up from a dream.

"Why didn't you go to school today?" She asks, brushing her curly hair from her face. "Your grades..."

"I'm sorry, mom." Tears prick his eyes. "I just didn't want to go."

"You're so smart, Robin. I tell everyone at the club that." The light from the street lamp highlights her dimples when she smiles. "I showed them the house you built. They loved it. They even asked me if you'd make one with them inside."

That's right. He used to build little toy houses. He would people-watch as a kid, trying to solve little everyday mysteries from the safety of his window or at the side of his mother and father. His imagination went wild, wild enough for him to create tiny homes and all sorts of stories inside them. Lego sets, popsicle sticks, cardboard and glue. His teachers bragged about him having a bright future in architecture or even anthropology. His peers...

"Other boys told me it was girly." He laughs, breathily, feeling cold streaks moving down his cheeks. "But you told me that was all right. I don't know why I stopped, really."

"I just want the best for you." She reaches a hand out to him, but she's not moving. Not really. Like a still-image, something his mind can't wrap around. "Not like how I grew up. Not like..."

The wind blows again, warm and tarnished, and she fades away. He panics. No, she can't go. Not _yet_. Not when he had so much more to say! Blake rushes over to where he saw her, or where he thought he saw her, only to hear a lower voice.

"Listen to your mother. You don't want to end up like me."

"No, fuck you. Go away. You're dead." Blake snaps, barely aware of how bizarre he must look, stumbling backwards out of the light. He can't see anybody. His knee hits a pole and the pain temporarily jolts him into reality. He grabs it, eager for something tangible in what could be a dream or a nightmare. "I've moved on. You can't do this to me now. I don't have time for this. I _don't_ have time for this. I need to find my... the boys will be heartbroken if I don't...Trevor, where the hell _are_ you..."

"Robin, I can't take you to practice today..." Echoes in his head, like ping-pong balls bouncing along the walls of his mind. Or are they voices, calling out to him just around the corner? He can't tell and it's scaring the hell out of him. "You'll have to go without me, huh?"

" _Fuck_ you."

He has to get closer to the smoke. Burn it away. Every time he breathes in and starts to cough the ghosts blink in and out of existence. He thinks he hears sounds in the direction he's going in. Howls? Laughter? They could just be more specters. When they turn out to be voices, ones that make his heart rattle in his chest, it's all he can do to tear down the bare street in a panic. He doesn't stop running until he's surrounded by the different sounds. Better ones. _Anything_ else.

Blake leans one hand on a tree, wherever he's found himself now, the other clammy palm warm even through his thick jeans. Aside from the cluster of chemicals in a cigarette he had always avoided drugs with a fervor. He had enough of a time keeping his thoughts properly sorted as it was. Any offers of weed from acquaintances (or more surreptitious offers of crack from his past co-workers) were turned down and with good humor. He didn't need whatever _this_ was fucking up all his hard work. Old Gotham's atmosphere was like a toxic cloud, driving him crazy after less than twenty minutes in the place. Was it even twenty? Or an hour? He didn't even know-

Then it clicks. It was something in the _air_.

He's so caught up in the realization he hardly registers the burning house that's going up in flames just feet away from him. Even despite the clouds of smoke billowing through the windows, it looks like it was already sorely behind on safety violations. Somehow he should've known there was no other way for there to be so much smoke in the air, but reality was already hanging on a thin thread. Staring up at the orange glow illuminating the windows and the now foggy sky, he starts to wonder if it's another delusion. Only when his shoulders are grabbed and someone starts screaming in his face does he realize he's _very_ awake.

"They put me on hold!" An...older woman? Who's _real_? She's panicking, make-up running down her face in dark smears. "They put me on hold. My _girl_ is in there!" He can hear the voices of a few others in his periphery, though it's hard to make out what they're saying.

"What...girl?" He repeats dizzily. "Who...?"

"My _daughter!_ "

He looks to the house in horror. The house isn't swathed in flames, not quite, but it was only a matter of time. Trevor would have to wait.

"Please! Please, help, for the love of _God_." She's pulled back from someone else, even as she struggles and tries to go toward the house. He would help. That's what he was trying to do, right? Help Gotham. Especially the parts nobody else seemed to give a shit about. So why the hell can't he move? Why do his legs feel like lead weights?

He can feel the ground shaking beneath his feet again. The ghosts of explosions just outside his periphery, enough to make him jerk as if struck. He's back in the city hall again. Everything's falling apart. He can't stand. Can't breathe. Those motherfuckers just bombed the place to rubble. He's failed and he's going to die a failure. Except...

Something large and dark looms over him.

"Bane...?" He whispers.

Everything is dark. The air feels like a furnace and he can hear a rumbling murmur all around him. He hopes to anything remotely good it isn't another hallucination and sits up to see the twirling lights of an ambulance and someone being wheeled out of the house. He's on the wet grass and he's freezing.

"He's awake!" Someone yells. Awake? He was...?

Blake dimly looks around at the dimming chaos. The ghosts are gone, the fire is out and Trevor is still nowhere to be seen.

The gentle _crunch_ of grass. An officer looks down at him.

"Whew. You're in trouble, Blake."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad I found AO3, because I'm going to need some hardcore fanfiction to distract me from the shitshow that is the news this week.
> 
> Fun fact: I based Trevor off a husky mix with the same name I had as a kid. Loved to run off and everything. I miss that dog.


	28. One Thing After Another

_Snap._

The man died instantly. Everyone knows because he goes utterly silent instead of shrieking out every last breath, goes slack instead of thrashing and beating against the stone in uncontrollable spasms as his spinal cord tries to reason with the severed connection. It was a quick death, a clean one. Something everyone in the pit dreamt about even as they stared up at the sky and hoped they would be the lucky one.

His new world. His temporary world. If he were to save Gotham, he'd have to save this one, first.

Like worker ants the prisoners methodically lower him down and gather each limp half in their arms. There's an even deeper pit, one only ventured to when someone needed to relieve themselves or perhaps drown out the sounds of the other inmates when insanity threatened to take hold. The dirt was thick and there was the strange smell of iron, something strong enough to mute even the scent of a corpse. The deceased man had to be transported before some got second thoughts about their own hunger. He'd only witnessed this savagery once since he arrived, but it was something he wouldn't soon forget.

If he were to save this one, he'd have to save himself.

He chews his stiff, flavorless bread in the corner in the shadows and shifts his focus on each agonizing chew, trying in vain to stop his back from reacting to every little movement. Even a meager breath wracks his body with lances of agony and it's almost enough to send the bread back up to puddle onto the floor. The doctor makes him tea, too hot, and tells him to rest. He gives him a polite word and insists, again, that he can't. Not when Gotham could be rubble. The burn of his throat is another distraction, however brief and miserable, and it sets him up for what he needs to do next.

He returns to his drills. Lifts himself from the floor again and again and again even as his body pleads with him to lay down. Begs him to return to somewhere quiet and let his eyes close. He wishes he could obey, but every time he trades outside darkness with his own he only sees his failure. He'd have to stay awake as long as possible. Draining the weakness from his body bit by agonizing, white-hot bit. A few murmurs the next cell over fill his periphery. Tired and unintelligible.

He hits the ground and doesn't get back up again fifteen minutes later, his limbs trembling in violent spurts. Pain is let out in a long hiss, one that alerts the doctor and soon has him leaning against the bars to check on him. The old man clicks his tongue at the sight and soon he can parse out the bitter scent of medication. He struggles to open his eyes again. To stare at the light above. The television looping distant news stations in the far upper corner. The riots. The murders. The destruction.

" _Where am I...?_ "

A fight breaks out between the prisoners below. The guards must have thrown something down. That or someone had finally given in and sought out the still-cooling body many feet below. The doctor dims the lamp as not to draw attention to himself and starts to feel along his back, his delicate fingers akin to the dragging tips of knives.

"Someday you will learn no one escapes. Though your stubbornness is impressive, yes. You must not have been told 'no' very much where you came from." He puffs as he dabs as the heated skin, even as it makes Bruce's body convulse like a breached fish. Somewhere he can hear the gravelly tones of the blind doctor, beyond his comprehension still. "See, don't end up like poor Camran. The pit has been here for over one hundred years and not even you will make a mockery of its power. Accept it and it will be easier, in time. This is your..."

 _"...Home. Where I learned the meaning of despair._ " The masked man calls from the shadows. " _...as will you."_

\--

Blake is detained for twenty-four hours.

It's not the first time he's been in a cell. It is the first time he's been in a cell and feels like he's about to crawl out of his skin with paranoia, though. The hallucinations were long gone, but the prevalent sense of unease eventually turned into a film of sweat from head to toe, rendering him clammy and jumpy and desperate for a distraction he didn't have. His past stint as an officer hadn't afforded him much special treatment (though he noticed he hadn't been jostled as much as the average offender on his way to his cage). The rare time he was able to nod off on the hard cot his dreams were a clusterfuck.

His mother shows up again, but she keeps coughing billows of smoke so heavy he can feel himself drowning inside them. He tries to escape by running down empty streets with too many lanterns, their rusty creaking like needles in his ears and driving him crazy. He attempts to flee inside a house on the furthest end of the street and a flood of bats swarm him through the open door, clawing and tugging at his jacket. Only when he manages to fight his way inside does he find himself somewhere else entirely.

An empty restaurant, dusty and dark like it hasn't been used in years. Empty shot glasses and bottles line the tables and he's wracked with a terrible thirst. He wakes up with his throat bone dry and has to ask (a few _damn_ times) for some water. Sleep turns into a frustrating tug-of-war between dozing and snapping back to attention and the tenth time he jerks into wakefulness he's almost screaming with frustration.

Then the proceeding day shifts gears from a self-contained nightmare to a joke.

One of the officers hands him a cigarette while he's in the waiting room. He all but snatches it, puffing on it and picking at his jeans in an attempt to focus himself amid the familiar (and ugly) gray. His manic energy would soon dissolve into a nervous breakdown or bone-weary exhaustion (or both), but for now it was racing thoughts. At least he could be productive while waiting to hear his sentence. He could think about what he saw. The strange chemicals present in the air. The poor management on behalf of the department on Old Gotham and, presumably, East End, the Browery and more. A few more puffs and the encroaching buzz reminds him he's lying to himself.

No...it means confronting what he _also_ wished was a bad dream. 

Why couldn't he enter the burning house? Why here? Why _now?_ It didn't make any damn sense. He nearly drowned _twice_ over the past month and a half (it's been that long?) and water didn't hold the same gravity for him. He's been shot at. Attacked by a mythical crocodile man. Slept with the mercenary that kidnapped him. Chalk that up for the record books. So why in all of Gotham's gray hell was _that_ night the stopping point of his bravado? His shiny new Achilles' heel? He does the only thing that makes sense as a budding detective and digs through every last buried memory in an attempt to find a link.

It wasn't fire. It couldn't be. He didn't see many flames when he arrived (mostly smoke, huge, suffocating, dark, gray-) and he had no trouble filling up his furnace at home. Shit, he still had his lighter. He could flick it open now and just wish for another cigarette to bum off of someone. Was it whatever was in the air just making him paranoid? Mixing up the chemicals in his brain into some unreliable mush? He wonders what Bane would think if he saw him like that, frozen to the spot like a deer in headlights, then scratches his hair so vigorously it spills over his eyes.

Bane. Bane thought he was reckless. Impulsive. He also thought he was...what was it he said, all the way back in the storm drains? Something about backbone? It clearly was nothing of the sort. People with backbone didn't leave a kid inside a burning building because they were _scared_. Shame fills him up, nauseating and cold, and his heart starts to pound anxiously in his chest. He didn't even know if she came out of it alive. He was too dizzy and confused at the time, hardly even realized he'd been pushed into a car before he was carted out to one of the holding centers. Flickers of a panic attack make his mouth feel sour and he pushes the thoughts away and, with them, the solution. He doesn't want to think about it. Any of it. He'll focus on more immediate issues.

Like telling the boys their new best friend was gone and his new boss he'd need an extra day or two. He asks for another smoke.

Then Foley walks out and pats his back like an old friend. The man says something, probably, but Blake's thoughts are still stir-crazy. He stalks down the hallway and into the man's office stone-faced, distantly knowing he should be playing it up with a smile and some mealy-mouthed nothings about the state of his kids' health or something. Play up favor to avoid something nasty on his record...whatever they were booking him for.

"So, Blake. What were you doing down there, anyway?" Foley asks as he sits down. His office is just as overdecorated as he remembers, with a Christmas tree now in the corner and stuffed with what are probably empty boxes. "Trying to get seasonal pictures of the clock tower?"

"My dog ran off." He mutters, lighting his second cigarette and carelessly puffing into the room. "Went to go get her."

" _All_ the way to Old Gotham?" He laughs, a touch stiffly, and reaches behind him to open a window. "You're not _that_ close, are you?"

"...I moved." Foley raises his eyebrows and Blake has to wrestle his tone down to something that _doesn't_ suggest he wants to punch him between the eyes. "You know, that thing people do when they want a fresh start?"

A biting chill seeps through the office and Blake forces himself not to shiver. The man starts shuffling through the papers on his desk as he sits back down. A tactic to put him on edge, no doubt. Start fearing whatever consequence he has up his sleeve. Blake leans on his elbows and lets his gaze wander, working at the cigarette idly -- he can just catch Foley's mouth twisting out of the corner of his eye. Let him think he's unruffled.

"What have you been up to lately?" The man asks after a deliberately long moment.

"This part of the interrogation?"

"Just trying to catch up."

"...The cells could use a TV." He reaches over and flicks ash into the small garbage can. "Also, feather pillows should be outlawed. They don't do shit for your neck."

Foley goes a little pink, as he usually did when something wasn't going his way. "...You know..." The shuffling of papers continues. "Disappearing on the job at city hall and quitting a week later doesn't look good." The shuffling stops. "Messing around in Old Gotham after curfew doesn't look good, either." He smiles. Just a little. "Witnesses saying you attacked a neighbor, to boot? Details are a little fuzzy, but there was a knife..." Soft _tap-tap_ of his finger on some incriminating note. "Bruises, too..."

The cool indifference is replaced with slow, numbing rage. He was trying to screw him.

"Is that what they said?" Blake replies once he can find his voice. "You, uh, threaten to get them evicted if they said anything more honest?"

"Oh, they were plain as day." Foley says, dropping the papers and leaning forward with an eager glint in his eyes. "You kicked her. There was a knife on the scene. I gotta say, I'm worried, especially when you left on such a quiet note. Anyone here speaking on your behalf...should that actually _happen_...would only remember you as a hothead."

He thinks of the boys. Of Reilly. Of Barbara. Of _anyone_ that would be disappointed if he suddenly lunged across the room and strangled the man with his own $20 tie. His face isn't pink anymore. Indeed, it's a smooth, happy, gloating pallor now that he's got Blake right where he wants him.

"You know, I'd be willing to overlook this." He says, too quickly, leaning back in his chair with a _creak_. "We can sweep this under the rug. Make it so it never happened, even. We've got enough arrests on our plate without making you occupy a cell better suited for a protester."

 _'You deceitful, murderous, tasteless motherfucker.'_ Blake thinks as Foley smooths down his collar. _'Didn't expect me to slip between your fingertips, did you? Had a speech prepared about the untimely demise of the promising rookie? If Bane feels like airing out any more dirty laundry, I've got a few tips he could use. If he doesn't kill you first._ '

"There are quite a few things you could tell me in exchange for not being stuck in a cell for two years for aggravated assault." He continues, seemingly blissfully unaware of the boiling fury just a few feet away from him. "What you heard in the city hall...rather, what you kindly forgot to update me on before your untimely departure...anything you might've seen in your new neighborhood. Anything about Bane." Blake flings the rest of the cigarette in the garbage.

"Foley, I _told_ you everything I know-"

"Bullshit!" He snaps, lunging forward and slamming his hands on the desk. Blake would be startled if he hadn't seen it before. "You _know_ something. I've seen you and Gordon. You were the closest thing that _fossil_ had to a protege, you two loved to confer where you thought nobody else could s-"

"Wouldn't think it all that important to you, considering all my knowledge of the guy could've died _with_ me."

There are cameras. He's just vague enough, but it hits hard. Foley's beet red now. Trembling with embarrassment or indignation or some other ugly, inappropriate emotion. The room is choking with pent-up energy and Blake can feel fight-or-flight buzzing in his legs.

"So, how's it going in here?"

A soft _click_. Gordon is peering through the doorway.

"Good to see you, John." He says, a bundle of newspapers under one arm and a tray of coffee in the other. "Foley." Whatever bluster the guy was floating on deflates like a soggy balloon. He slumps back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach in a pantomime of someone in charge.

"James, I'm in the middle of an interroga-"

"I can see that. Fortunately for you, I can take over from here." He sets a coffee down on the man's desk. A peace offering or a distraction, he'll never know. Foley's gaze could bore holes into the paper cup. "You're needed downtown. There's a blockade that's stopping up traffic."

"What does that have to do with me?" Foley sneers. Gordon frowns mildly.

"There are more than a few of Bane's men leading the charge. If anyone's to be getting down and dirty with the city's terror, it should be the deputy commissioner." He gestures to Blake with the coffee tray, the aroma of which is already making his mouth water. "Surely petty crime isn't the highest on your to-do list."

Blake can practically hear the gears turning in the man's head as he attempts to reconcile with his actual duty and petty lust for control. He steels his face into quiet complacency, rather than the surly relief he's feeling.

"Don't worry." Gordon says with his rare humor when the man doesn't respond. "I'll make sure we reach a reasonable conclusion on John Blake's breaking of a curfew under sympathetic circumstances."

"And assault."

The old man almost looks bored as he sets down a newspaper on the desk and motions for Blake to follow him. "We'll see." It's hard not to feel like a kid being picked up by his parents after detention. It's even harder not to feel completely moody about the entire affair when he follows the Commissioner into his car. "I'm a normal citizen, yet you're bailing me out. Bit of a mixed message to the people you're sworn to protect."

"You can go back in there if you like." He responds. "Or you can come with me and accept progress doesn't happen in a day."

Blake opens his mouth, then shuts it tiredly. "Goddammit." He mutters. At the very least Gordon seems rather sobered by it.

"All right." He says once the door shuts and he starts the engine. "Explain yourself."

The story is lengthier than he intends it to be, part dry anecdote and part rant. Gordon shakes his head once he's done, mopping coffee from his mustache and reaching into a small bag beside him. "You went in after curfew? Even you could've waited to do whatever it is you needed to do." Blake opens his mouth to remind him about Trevor when he holds up a hand. "I've known you for over a year, Blake. That's enough time for me to pick up that you have a tendency to run off and do whatever you think is right. I have no doubt about the dog, but..." 

"You going to try and make me feel bad for picking up the department's slack? _Your_ slack?" Blake accepts the drip coffee and dumps a creamer inside. Caffeine and cigarettes on an empty stomach with little sleep was a bad idea, but he was beyond caring.

"So, there was a fire...?" Gordon presses.

"Yeah. I didn't...save her." The Commissioner frowns curiously and he sighs. "There was a little girl inside. The building."

"You're not trying to follow in Batman's footsteps?" A sigh. "You're starting to get on a lot of people's bad side..."

"I didn't _seek_ it out. I just happened across it." What he _doesn't_ say is how that was going to change. "I hate to pull the whole 'he started it' routine, but he shouldn't have tried to get me killed."

He coughs on his drink. "Wait...Foley tried to get you killed?"

"Reason I got caught up in the city hall mess in the first place is because he...lied to me about the detonation time. Didn't think he'd sink that low." The Commissioner doesn't press or ask for details. He just stares at him in sympathetic horror. The trust is relieving, almost dizzying, and he sips his coffee to avoid saying something corny.

"I wish I could give you better news...but Foley still has a few more supporters than you do. I'll do whatever I can to keep him off your back, but don't go running off on reckless escapades." His voice lowers. "You're on thin ice, John."

"I see where Barbara gets her mother hen from." Gordon chortles.

"Speaking of Barbara...you haven't been giving her any ideas, have you, John?"

Blake blinks. "What ideas?" He hopes the man didn't hear her trying to give him insider info. He didn't think he'd be mad. At least, not overly.

"I just caught her drawing something. Some sort of outfit. Looked like Batman's." His chuckle is tired. It's clearly not all he's seen. "Seems his fanbase hasn't gone anywhere over the years."

Blake smiles tiredly and leans back in his seat. They finish their drinks in silence, watching cars drive by past the small pocket between the brick walls.

They drive around Old Gotham putting up fliers and asking around for Trevor, an additional favor from Gordon he deeply appreciates. His presence in Old Gotham, though, doesn't exactly do them any favors. Gordon wasn't a celebrity, no, but he was known. He gets more than a few pissed off glances from the people they ask on the street, with one man outright refusing to speak to him and walking off in mid-sentence. With everyone still dealing with the restrictions of a curfew and increased patrols, he couldn't blame them. Once they're sure they've covered every inch they could he takes him back home.

"Still haven't told them about her. For all I know she could be in Metropolis by now." He doesn't want to indirectly jinx her and say 'dead' as he pulls out his phone and scrolls for Reilly's number. Gordon is staring off in the distance. Blake follows his gaze, then frowns when he doesn't see anything of note.

"You...okay?"

The Commissioner jerks to attention, then rubs his chin.

"...I believe so." He unlocks the door. "For now, give me one less gray hair and stay out of trouble."

Blake steps out of the car, only to feel intuition's nagging pull. He looks over his shoulder.

"You know I could say the same about you, right?" Gordon gives him a funny look at that and he hunches halfway inside the car, hand on the handle. "...You've been planning on resigning. Maybe now would be a good time to do it. The department is going to fall apart with or without your help. You've seen how deadset Foley and his cronies are on unraveling every rare decent thing that's in place. There's an entire world of good you could be doing instead, thirty years be damned."

The old man studies him tiredly. It's only been a year between them, through work, no less, but it felt like a dozen. It was one of many things that made their friendship a little strange and, if Blake was being entirely honest, a little relieving. Decent people in Gotham were a rarity. That's why he wanted him out. Bane would show him no mercy once their paths crossed again and Blake couldn't in good conscience blame him for doing so.

"Is there something you want to tell me, John?" Gordon asks after a long moment of silence, gentle tone not matching the shrewd concern in his eyes. Blake leans back out of the car.

"...Your granddaughter needs you. So does your family." He finishes with a small smile. "Gotham could be a hell of a lot worse, but it could also be a hell of a lot better, you know."

\--

He calls Bane. It had been well over a week since they last spoke and the longer the distance, the more his bundle of nerves got the better of him. The meeting at the dog shelter had been their last physical rendezvous, their contact over the next several days reduced to occasional phone calls that remained firmly in the realm of social updates. When the man picks up his jovial jaunt is gone, replaced by something disaffected and mechanical over the phone's tinny speaker. Even not seeing his face, he imagines he must look like hell.

" _John._ "

"Hey. Sorry I haven't..." The apology dries up in his mouth. He clears his throat and starts again. "I actually needed to ask a few questions, if you have the time."

" _Proceed._ " If not for the man's characteristic accent, he'd be positive it was a robot on the other side.

"What do you know about the Scarecrow?" He avoided saying the masked man's name over the phone -- they both may take extra precautions to ensure they weren't being wire-tapped, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Bane is quiet for a few moments, his wheezing breath just barely discernible over the phone's buzz.

" _He was employed by Ra's Al Ghul nearly eight years ago. A pawn in a game too elaborate for a pompous man. His science had been useful, but his intentions left much to be desired._ " Blake appreciated Bane answering questions he hadn't yet asked, no doubt used to his tendency to press. It also hadn't escaped his notice when he used the assassin leader's full title despite being a self-admitted student -- he wondered if it was the same reason Bane would use _his_ full name from time to time. His way of maintaining a little distance.

"Why'd he hire him?"

_"To make Gotham suffer."_

"No kidding." He may have turned the man down, but he was still incredibly curious about the League. It was still hard to believe it was real. Well, as real as it could be being apparently defunct for years. "It really is weird that you and your teacher wanted completely opposite things. That what made you a bad student?"

This pressing doesn't get him more details. If anything, the guy sounds a little short.

" _What are your other questions?_ "

"Right. Uh, this was more information than I thought'd I'd hear, to be honest. Do you know where he is now?"

" _No. Not after his temporary stint as a judge for the city hall_." It takes Blake a second to realize he was referring to the man in the tattered suit and his no-win scenario of death or exile. " _Formerly known as Jonathan Crane. I do not know his current alias._ "

"Wait, he was the...why'd you make a former murderer a judge? Doesn't seem like something _you'd_ be into."

" _On the contrary. He was a symbol of Gotham's populace reigning in attempted terror. A breathing metaphor for corruption and abuse of power. The man was reminded of his place every time he went onto the stand and enacted the will of the people rather than his own. Not even I control Gotham, John. We are both figureheads, but one is...a little more pathetic than the other._ " The sinister humor sounds a little more like his usual self, if only for a second (and as much as he knew about his usual).

Even on a target Blake could care less about, he was still unnerved by the man's thorough pettiness. He could give Foley a run for his money (though, unlike Foley, Bane had actual brain to back it up). He'd long since deducted why Bane had kept him alive underneath Gotham instead of burying him six feet under when he had the opportunity. He wonders to the guy's other enemies and what particular hells they were still struggling with in his wake.

' _Batman must've gotten a real special deal._ '

"Do you think he'd want to take up the mantle again?"

" _Whether or not he would want to is moot. Upon his capture eight years ago he was also stripped of his title, connections and finances. Even should he get his hands on enough raw materials and space to conduct such complex research, dispersing it quantities vast enough to affect entire neighborhoods would be difficult without allies._ "

"I...see." He can feel his mind stretching itself around the new truths and old lies. He hadn't believed the man was killed, but news reports had been their usual twisty, vague selves. Who else hadn't been killed? Could the Joker still be alive? One thing at a time.

" _Of course...there is always a possibility._ "

"Yeah. Even a small one is still worth checking out."

" _You truly believe he may be involved?_ " Blake feels a tension he didn't realize was there slowly seep out of him. Even a mild gesture like asking _him_ a question makes him feel less like a nuisance.

"It's not exactly the same as the attacks eight years ago, but there are some similarities. Enough to be suspicious. I mean, it's the furthest possible thing from natural...or panic attacks or some new drug or _whatever_ the hell bullshit the media is spinning." He pushes down the anger. "I went to Old Gotham the other night. I started tripping out, seeing things that weren't there. Like my...my parents." Fuck it, the anger rises up anyway. Like a wound being peeled open again when he least expected it. "I've never done drugs before, but it's not unlike common symptoms of acid or shrooms."

" _Were you afraid?_ "

That's right. Some called it a 'fear toxin', back then. "I..." The shame again. He puffs out a breath and lowers his voice, for no other reason than to console himself. "...No. Yeah? I mean. It was like being in a nightmarish funhouse. But it was actually more than that. I was...sad. Hurting. Felt like I was losing what mattered most all over again." Bane goes quiet. He's not sure if the man's thinking or simply doesn't have anything else to say.

"Well...I'm going to get to the bottom of this. I've been doing some digging and I think I know where I'll be heading next."

" _Should I hear anything more you will be the first to know._ " He senses the finality in his tone and feels his stomach flip-flop like he's on the edge of a precipice.

"Have you and Talia..."

" _She is contained._ "

"Uh, hey..."

" _Yes?_ "

' _I'm sorry you had to go through that. Your daughter may have tried to put a new hole in my neck, but what you're going through can't be easy. I miss you. You're a nearly indestructible force of nature and somehow I still find myself worrying about your safety. Don't...forget about me._ '

"...Be careful out there."

There had been a long silence, so long he thought the man had hung up. Then...

" _Of course._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally supposed to be one chapter, but it got longer than expected. Don't they always?
> 
> ( _betterwritersthanmeknowwhentokeepthingssimple-_ )


	29. Follow The Punchline

His apartment is starting to feel like a rabbit hole. Somewhere he flees to when he's exhausted out of his wits and needs to recoup away from roaming eyes.

The plant is wilting, he notes sadly, and he waters it anyway in the vague hopes it'll spring up again. At the very least Foley was clearly bullshitting (he _knew_ , but he wouldn't turn down validation) when it came to what the witnesses had to say. His neighbors greet him with concern and curiosity rather than suspicion on his way up the stairs. Telling him Chin-mae is still in the hospital and undergoing treatment.

Reilly takes the bad news decently enough, but he always was particularly good at grumping and grousing the worry away. He agrees to keep it under wraps until Blake got more information...or none at all. It's not a lie. Not really. The boys had enough on their plate. At least he could give them a few more days before confessing to another fuck-up.

When he's not making up work (and crafting very eloquent apologies for his tardiness) he's spending hours poring over every last scrap of information he can on the Scarecrow. Anything on the neighborhoods that were hit eight years ago with a strange substance that caused people to hallucinate and go mad, viewing friends as enemies and lashing out at nothing with morbid consequences. He still remembered hearing about it during college, riding the bus home after school and hearing over the intercom that civilians should avoid the downtown area.

He hadn't, of course. He'd gotten off on an earlier stop and gone directly toward where it was all supposedly had gone down, desperate for even a glimpse of the legendary Batman. He was even more arrogant than he was now, convinced all the shit he'd been through would be enough to see him through what he had _thought_ was just a little extra danger. He'd arrived only in time to see the wreckage -- fires, broken windows, splashes of blood where there shouldn't be anything close to the sort. If some sort of chemical weapon had been in the air it had long since disappeared. All he had found on the scene before the police arrived was half of one of Batman's weapons, something like a shuriken in the shape of a bat.

The Scarecrow had supposedly been killed (with multiple witnesses claiming a nasty fall), but he knew it was possible (if not damn hard) to cover up a death and walk the world under a new identity. Shit, it was something the average Gothamite often dreamt about. He'd even heard of something called a clean slate once, something that could apparently wipe someone's existence off the face of the earth and give them a brand new start as if they had been born again.

News stations back then wanted to pretend it was all another sad side-effect of poverty. One _so_ sad they would do nothing and instead switch right to the latest scandal involving a celebrity once the already short runtime had worn out its welcome. Same old, same old. Blake was lucky enough to have clawed his way up to lower middle-class over the years, but poverty's weight had permanently impacted his perception of the world. He never forgot how easily stability could be yanked out from a person's feet and leave them disoriented for years. Luck didn't feel good and it could run out at any time.

If Scarecrow really was releasing some sort of toxin and affecting entire groups of people with hardly anyone the wiser...he would have to rethink Batman's mercy and Bane's spite -- the inconvenient foundation undercutting this whole thing. Even worse? He knew he wouldn't be the one to break the pattern.

At the very least he has a pretty decent lead. Actually finding the guy was something else entirely. Thankfully, Bane wasn't the only one who might know a thing or two about him. The city hall had been filled with all sorts of people, many of which seemed well-connected and, most of all, close. It wasn't farfetched to believe someone in the rebel crowd could put him on a warmer trail. Harleen had been the closest he had to a friendly face all the way back then. While basic online searches hadn't given him much information on her, he was more than a little good at digging between the cracks. Throwing on his coat and pulling out a small breathing mask, he makes sure he's well-equipped before he heading to Toxic Acres.

Perusing social media in favor of Bane had been a careful affair. His rather decent knowledge of computer science and underhanded government tactics meant he could browse sensitive topics comfortably, but it was hard not to itch every time he stumbled upon a custom site created in Bane's name. He definitely knew about the underhanded tactics the police department would enforce in order to sneak in under the radar -- mimicking vernacular, creating fake accounts, flat-out hacking them. He spotted each false trail in an instant. Little did those schmucks know it only pointed him in the direction of the real deal.

It was when he kept stumbling upon a joke constantly told on certain forums and social media accounts did he realize he was onto something. Not only was it repeated too conspicuously to be negligible, there was an even more conspicuous lack of answers.

' _What do you call medication that makes you irate instead of feeling great?_ '

He'd rolled it in and out of his head for hours the first time he saw it, wondering if it was a red herring, a meme or a huge clue sitting pretty right under everyone's nose. The moment he honed in on a possible answer was the moment he honed in on the riskiest location yet.

"You find your dog?" One of his neighbors yells out from their porch as he gets into his car. A nice old lady who always seemed to be listening to cassette tapes.

"Not yet." He calls back. "But I'm sure she'll turn up eventually."

"It may be foggy now, but give it time!" She responds before leaning back in her chair. Blake smiles at the classic Gotham saying -- a solution might not be easy to see, but give it enough time and it'll present itself. Who said Gothamites weren't hopeful?

He parks as far away as he can while remaining close enough should things go sour and he needs a quick escape route. He's used to seedy. Even being in the force hadn't taken away his edge. Blending in was a matter of remembering where he grew up, though this particular location had the added benefit of being hazardous to one's health and mostly abandoned. A casual glance at holes in the surrounding fence and the dirty remains of a 'Stay Out' sign reaffirms what he already knows.

Toxic Acres. The rolling hills and distant trees are almost homely, but the yellow tint to the grass and conspicuous lack of snow make the entire place seem just a little off. One of the few areas he hadn't really seen much of as a kid, even when he lived close by -- Peter's Ranch had been in acute denial of its location for years, even as the notoriously bad air constantly made the kids inside come down with everything from mild asthma to severe bronchitis. The dime-store mask wasn't much, sure, but he wasn't going to be here for long.

Hopefully.

It's a brief walk down the trails (all but disappeared under a coating of rocks) before he makes it to the cluster of small houses and empty would-be shops that was supposed to be a thriving neighborhood -- originally a new project paid for by the city to house the immigrant population (a well-wishing gift, perhaps), it's dirty and dusty and overgrown now. People had actually stayed for a time, only to pack their bags once the health reports came in...or they found out the hard way. Even Gotham's homeless steered clear of the place when everyone evacuated en masse, with the few that attempted a visit covered head-to-toe. Blake coughs when a cold breeze shakes the trees and hopes it's his normally abused lungs complaining and not the mask failing him.

He can hear voices nearby. He rounds a corner and sees a few people relaxing in front of half-open doors, some wearing similar carbon masks and others boasting gas masks that coat their entire face. He even spots one wearing a Bane knock-off. He's definitely on the right track. The deeper he goes into the seemingly abandoned neighborhood the more populated it becomes, filled with people of all shapes and sizes, the atmosphere strangely akin to a night outing or a concert. A few glances is all he gets in return, even when he gravitates to what seems to be the most important building in the square.

What used to be a makeshift district hall, perhaps. It's old and the paint is peeling, but the lights glowing within give it an approachable look nonetheless. Someone opens a small slot on the door and peers at him with scrutinizing eyes the moment he lifts his hand to knock. He opens his mouth to offer a generic greeting, only to snap it shut at the curt question.

"What do you call medication that makes you irate instead of feeling great?"

Blake steels himself. Moment of truth.

"Poison I.V."

A pause. The panel slams shut. He can hear hasty muttering through the wood. An occupier nearby gives him an encouraging wave and he can't help but feel rather pleased with himself...until three people walk out and surround him. The same woman who had just spoken to him and two others with faces entirely hidden.

"Good answer." She says with a fold of her arms. "Now let us see your face."

His expression falls into a frown. Not good. The mask did the dual work of concealing his identity -- not all that well-known to begin with, but his former occupation meant some would likely commit him to memory out of survival. It also kept him from developing a disease. He tells her about the latter, at least, and she's not impressed.

"Only a few seconds. Take it off then put it back on. If you have nothing to _hide_ , that is."

"Sorry to be so paranoid. Tatsu's a lot nicer than she looks." Her peer says, apologetically, their face obscured behind a mouth-wrap and heavy shades. "We're always accepting newcomers, but we have to be careful."

"Makes sense." He responds casually. "You have a lot at stake."

"Why are you here?" The other asks.

"I heard Harleen comes here sometimes."

They're all sizing him up. Trying to figure out if he's a threat or an easy target. He stands his ground and offers them an easygoing smile. A street scrap doesn't scare him, but he'd rather not fight if he could help it. He was here to _help_ , not add another dropping on the shit pile. Of course, words only went so far. One movement and he has the mask pulled down, though he holds his breath.

"I met her at city hall." He continues once he pushes it back up. "I just wanted to ask some questions. Then I'll go."

"People don't usually come to her for _questions_." Her tone is dagger-sharp. "You rub me the wrong way and the fact I can't put a finger on it I like even less."

The door creaks. He turns, expecting to see more people coming out to flank him, and instead blinks at the huge, pink bubble just inches from his face. A _pop_ and he sees Harleen leaning on Tatsu's shoulder.

"Easy, now." She smiles at him, large blue eyes reminding him uncomfortably of Talia. "Rob, yeah?"

"...Er, no. That was an alias I used." He's afraid that'll already put him in hot water, but she seems unsurprised.

"I know a thing or two about those. Come on in. We're all friends here." Tatsu groans when Harleen pinches her cheek. "Even you, doll."

He's immediately struck by the warmth of the place. Christmas light strings and antique lamps clash pleasantly, keeping the light low yet nicely spread out. A handful of teenagers and adults lounge in the corners, lean on the windowsills and curl on the floor, caught up in conversation or whatever's on their phones. It's a place to trade information as much as it is to relax. He's momentarily startled by maskless faces, only to notice a rather large air purifier working diligently on one of the tables.

A few glances and he can see a mostly covered fire escape to the far right, flanked by a bean bag and a pile of what seems to be scraps and tools. It's all more color than he's used to and he wonders idly if it's another facet of their rebellion against the city.

Or, as Bane would probably put it: _for_ the city.

"You like my joke? I came up with it myself. Though I gotta come up with a new punchline every other week." She says as she leads him in. Without waiting for an answer she continues. "So you're not Rob. Who're you, then?" Harleen makes herself comfortable on one of the sofas, patting a stool nearby for him to sit. He eyes the hyenas snoozing at her feet and shakes his head politely.

"John." He holds his breath for a moment, then adds. "I was a cop."

The easygoing air shifts into something much more tense. He holds himself firm, neither showing shame or pride as some look his way.

"But you're not anymore?" Harleen says as she nods to someone in the far corner, who immediately starts scrolling in their phone -- likely double-checking.

"I quit a while back." He shrugs, more mildly than he feels. "Wanted to do some actual good."

"You've certainly come to the right place." She smirks. "You could call us the Goody Two-Shoes of Gotham, but nobody else thinks it'll catch on, sadly." He holds back a chuckle. He had plenty of name ideas, but it was time to cut to the chase.

"What do you know about the Scarecrow?"

"Who needs to know?"

"I have money. I can pay you." His mouth twists. "Not much, but name your price."

"Well, he _used_ to go by Alan Smi-." She starts. He holds up his hands swiftly.

"No, wait, hold up! Don't shoehorn me in like that. What's your price?" Tatsu grudgingly agrees with him, crossing her arms and flicking thin hair out of her eyes.

"Seriously, you're just going to let him in like _that?_ " She says with a frown. "We don't even know _his_ real name. Could just be bribing us with some quick cash to undermine our entire set-up her-"

"John Blake." He interrupts, softly. All eyes and masks turn on him. "...John Robin Blake." It's a gesture of trust. She returns it.

"Harleen Quinzel."

He smiles, even through the uncomfortable tickle in the back of his mind. Why the hell does that sound so familiar...? The person that had been looking at their phone gives her a thumbs-up from where he's sitting. He's in the clear.

"He saved our necks back at city hall. If he hadn't tipped us off we'd all be pancakes or cell stuffing, whichever came first." She says with a pop of her gum. "I'd say that's enough to get a little trust."

Now everyone looks at him differently. He even sees a jaw drop. This constant mood shifts has him feeling a little dizzy and he focuses on Harleen's hyenas curled up on the wooden floor. It's amazing how such bizarre animals blended into the background when they wanted to. Even in the dim lighting he can see their nails are painted red. One has a heart-shaped mark on their cheek and the other a diamond. Wait. A diamond...?

"What do you do here, exactly?" He murmurs, dawning realization just on the cusp of his mind.

"Gather intel. Protect people who ain't got much. Throw the occasional crook in the toxic pond. You know, the works." She twirls a finger in her curls. "Some live here. I've rented here myself and, I gotta say, these landlords are much more lenient than my last ones."

"Where did you stay?"

"Let's just say I, and quite a few others, don't have to worry about going back." She replies with a wink. "You got a question you wanna ask me, detective?"

The psychiatric wards Bane's men blew up and defaced. Harleen must see the recognition in his eyes, because she grins and makes a cheerful exploding motion with one hand.

"You...wouldn't happen to be...?"

"Sorry, doll." She pops her gum. "It's the autographs that'll cost ya."

...Harley _goddamn_ Quinn. He starts to mentally berate himself for not putting the pieces together sooner. To be fair, it had been nearly eight years ago when the infamous harlequin was tearing Gotham a new asshole alongside its most well-known threat. There was a _lot_ of information he had been attempting to catch himself up on in the gap between his bumming around Swithin's and getting into law enforcement. Well, that _and_ the woman had been covered head-to-toe in flashy outfits that wouldn't be out of place at a generic Halloween store. When he had free time he'd have to mull over his city's obsession with masks.

When Arkham Asylum and its associates had been shut down it was later kept under wraps where, exactly, all of Gotham's famous criminals were being relocated to. They were very likely not all in the same spot and even detailed interviews with psychologists and security guards alike were vague and deferential. As much to prevent allies from breaking them out as to prevent Gotham from sensationalizing them like last time, he imagined.

He studies the whispers of her old persona in her get-up. A bold lipstick-red jacket over a black top and torn jeans, with fingerless gloves and combat boots that look like they've seen better days. Dark roots peer through her bright blonde pigtails and her make-up is smoky and just a little over-the-top. Even then, she looks like she hasn't aged a day -- she could probably blend in with Barbara's crowd. It may also have something to do with her no longer wearing garish white paint, her face now warm and brown.

"So, how'd you go from kidnapping bankers and blowing up cars to helping out Bane overthrow the 1%?" He asks wryly. It's the first time he sees a flicker of something other than cheeky humor on her face. The dark eyes of one of her hyenas blink up at her intuitively.

"Look at you callin' the kettle black. Unless it's just another Thursday when a state pig quits and goes full vigilante to help out ghettos even the local garbagemen won't touch."

"Fair enough." He replies with a small smile. "We'll have to swap tales on our character building sometime."

She grins, all white teeth and red gloss. "My turn, doll. Why are _you_ lookin' for him?" She rubs a hand on one of the hyena's heads. It twitches sleepily. "If you're wanting to give him a few solid smacks you'll have to get in line. I think front row seats are sold out."

"I suspect he's involved with the strange events going on in Old Gotham." He lowers his voice a little. "I'm sure you all already know about the strange behavior cropping up."

The room goes quiet. A chair creaks and a few shuffle their feet. It pains him to come into such a relaxing space and bring up a topic that was no doubt still sore for many, but he was low on options. Harleen watches him steadily as he walks her through his realization over the days, making sure not to omit even seemingly minor details. His research. The news stories. His neighbor asking him for help, then her bizarre behavior later.

"...whatever trip-out I was going through vanished in the smoke." He finishes. "It was probably messing with the chemicals in the air, killing whatever effect he was going for."

"That reminds me. Lee's sister got caught up in a housefire the other night." Someone says in one of the dimly lit corners. Blake fixedly avoids their gaze, though they'd have no clue he was just yards away from pulling her out. "Third-degree burns, man. They're saying her mom did it. I don't buy it. She's a good woman."

"That was different, though." Another says. "The Scarecrow made people attack each other. Here it's been..." They shift from foot to foot. "...people mostly attacking themselves." An older member puts a quiet hand on their shoulder and Blake doesn't need to ask to know they've seen something similar.

"That'd be a real doozy, filling up the air with happy gas like that. Last I heard he was as broke as the rest of us. If he's able to do a repeat of last time I'd be a monkey's uncle." Bane had said something similar. He tucks the information away. "He hasn't been seen around since city hall went kaboom, though."

It was hard not to relax around her. She was like everyone's big sister, what with how easily she kept others in line and put them at ease. He keeps himself on edge, regardless -- he knows the bat she carries on her back and the hyenas that seem to follow her everywhere aren't just for show. If anyone still had any doubts about his intentions, there wasn't much stopping them from tossing him into one of those poisonous ponds. That or just pulling off his mask and making him sit outside for an hour or two.

"Well, it's your lucky day." She crosses her long legs. "Old Gotham's my old stompin' grounds. I've been wondering what's going on, too, and a detective could be just what I need to crack the case."

"Not officially." He corrects, only for her to wave a careless hand.

"Better that way." A greedy glint takes over her eyes and he feels a sudden need to check his pockets. "But, you're right. Nothing is free. So whaddya know about the clean slate?"

"What, the technological marvel that can scrub all of your private information and give you a whole new start?" She nods eagerly, only for her face to drop into a scowl when he shrugs. "I know _of_ it, but I quit a while ago. If I had access to any information on the slate, which I _didn't_ , I sure as hell don't have it now."

"You got friends there?"

"...Not really."

"I find that hard to believe."

"I _kind_ of left the job on a bad note." He frowns. "I wasn't _supposed_ to tip you guys off."

"You don't know _anyone?_ No favors anybody owes you?" He probably laughs more bitterly than usual because he earns a few wry looks from the lookers-on. "You gotta work with me here, John Robin Blake, I feel like a paddle with no canoe."

"You trying to start over new?" He asks. To his surprise she shakes her head, so hard her hair bounces around her face in a cloud. He doesn't get more than that.

Blake taps his chin and thinks hard. Commissioner Gordon would be a pretty unlikely source to ask. Not when he (indirectly) used up his favor points already. He didn't want to foist this on Barbara, as much as she clearly wanted to help him out. He could always attempt to dust off his hacking skills and see if he could suss out a little information. For a moment he wishes he had Selina Kyle's know-how. She must be thriving in Gotham's chaos ever since Blackgate got blasted apart.

"I'll think of a way." He says, finally. It's a vague answer, but a convicted one. Harleen seems pleased enough, leaning back and spreading her glittering hands in a show of joy.

"Seems like we made a new friend today, everyone. I think that calls for a beer, yeah?" There's the _snap_ of a fridge opening and she suddenly pouts like a child. "I wanted to make the drinks..."

"Ally, I'd think." He says over the growing hubbub, then blinks in sudden realization. "Harleen, you...weren't the one that actually convinced everyone to leave, by any chance?"

"Sure." She takes a can and tosses another to him. "A lot of people know me."

It's a little amazing. The trust of a complete stranger meant the difference between a few injured and arrested and something tragic. "I know this'll sound odd, but..." He cracks it open and hisses when foam spills over his fingers. "...why'd you believe me?"

She cackles, sounding not unlike the two hyenas dozing at her side. "Let's just say I'm a good judge of character."

To his surprise Tatsu sits down on the stool he didn't take, taking a deep swig of beer and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Good. We could use the help."

He hesitates at that. He already had so many to be responsible for. Looking at the strange and semi-familiar faces surrounding him, he's not sure he could take it if he exposed them to more danger. No matter how indirectly. No matter how competent or eager they were. Harleen looks him up and down, a scrutinizing gaze that makes him feel like has no secrets.

"Trust me when I say being a lone wolf ain't as cool as it looks." Everyone watches, their small smiles and knowing glances suggesting they, too, have been on the receiving end of Harleen's charisma. "I'll make sure you get to the bottom of this little mystery, doll. You and I know Gotham inside and out, so our Scarecrow won't be holed up for long. We'll find out whether or not he's been messing with our neighborhoods and even if he ain't, we'll bust him up a little so he won't get any bright ideas. In return, you'll give me a little insider info on your department so I can help my friend out. A win-win for the ages, huh?"

"If he's not the one behind it..." He says after a sip-turned-swig. "I'm still going to find the one responsible."

"We'll talk about that when it happens." She holds a hand out to him. "For now, though...we got a deal?"

He thinks how hard he might've resisted before he met Bane. Before he quit. How her past actions might've forever landed her on his shit list. Gotham was more grey than it had ever been. He wasn't about to let her off the hook, no. Not for accomplice to murder, kidnapping and god knows what else. But he was short on time and his list of allies was tenuous. She'd proven herself as someone who, at least for the moment, had her priorities in the right place. For now...

Blake clasps her hand and squeezes.

"...Deal."

\--

Bane calls him late that night.

He's slumped on his couch after a shower and typing on his laptop when it buzzes. He stares at the phone for a moment before it sinks in, then hits the receive button so hard he's sure he broke it.

"Hello?"

" _John. Are you available three days from now?_ " Straight to business.

"Uh, maybe. Why?"

" _Barsad will be making rounds on Gotham's southernmost border to update me on patrol protocol. Come see him at South Harbor and he will bring you to me for the night when he returns._ "

"I'm...not in danger, am I?" He jokes weakly. The masked man huffs out a breath. It could be exasperation. Could be a chuckle.

" _You are always in danger, John._ " Blake opens his mouth to speak, then slowly shuts it when he adds, " _I wish to see you, so don't be late._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...enjoy the _technical_ double-feature???


	30. Clemency

Mercy had always been a scarce resource in the League Of Shadows. Barsad considers its absence as their newest capture struggles and fails to appeal to Bane's pity through broken teeth.

Bane may have been willing to play fast and loose with its foundation over the years, but he still recognized its wisdom. That it didn't become one of the most influential, and virtually unknown, powers over the centuries by being tender to its opposition -- even as the masked man eagerly adopted its ancient fighting styles, quarter was a trump card to be kept under lock and key unless absolutely necessary. Talia al Ghul wasn't Bane's only child, at the end of the day, and he was ever protective of what the League stood for. It was all a lesson each new member had to learn and quickly, lest they become a liability to the cause and, by extension, the world at large.

 _"No one tool is suited for all situations, Barsad. You would use a hammer to mend a hem."_ The man had said during their first mission together -- a raid in Barsad's home country four years back, a means for Bane to gather resources for his growing army as well as a way to test the resolve of his newest recruit. Despite his mundane origins (he had only superficial knowledge of guns at the time through recreational hunting), his skill with numbers and cool under pressure were valued immediately from the first meeting. It wasn't enough for Bane, however. The man had needed to know _just_ how far he would go. Whether or not he would be willing to turn on the home that raised him and his. Make the hard decisions without so much as looking back. Even knowing this, even swearing under an oath of blood, Barsad had hesitated to kill his former employer.

Viktor. A covetous man that oversaw the proceeds of his insurance company with an icy heart, more concerned with meeting arbitrary figures than the well-being of his workers or the haggard clientele that visited their doorstep daily. Barsad had thought himself almost immune to the anecdotes over the years. The plaintive requests and tearful pleas. Mothers desperate for their child's cough to finally end. Of grandmothers and grandfathers abandoned by their family and the job market alike, desperate not to have their last resource leave them in the cold, too. It was finally one day where even he couldn't take it anymore.

Even through the slow burn of injustice, a sickness in his soul, he had struggled to pull the trigger during his resignation. Four years later and he never forgot the chill of the room. The thrill that passed through him when he realized he would never turn down another victim of fraud again...and the nausea that followed in light of what he had to do to _earn_ it. In light of his former employer's family and the void that would be left in their lives once the bullet passed from air to skull. It wasn't mercy for him that stayed his hand that evening. Not truly. A mercy for his children. His wife. Perhaps himself...and the people he, too, would have to leave behind for the League Of Shadows.

 _"Is it mercy you suffer from?"_ Bane had asked when he took the revolver from his frozen hands and fired a round into the man's skull. _"Or something worse?"_

Like ruthlessness and control, it was yet another commodity to be traded, used and shelved at will. Watching Bane calmly interrogate the first traitor, he idly wonders what mercy meant for John Blake. He was to meet with the detective within a few days on Gotham's outer borders and, if he were being entirely honest with himself, he was more than a little curious as to what their former prisoner has been up to all this time to warrant an ongoing acquaintanceship with Bane.

The first traitor had been identified earlier that day, scouting a small island far off Gotham's southern coast. Barsad had expected the radio frequencies to lead him further beyond Gotham's outlands, well beyond where the had originally kept Pavel. Instead the trail led to a nearby areas almost exclusively used by fishers and traders, hardly covered with more than a smattering of old, wooden buildings and more meticulously maintained docks. It had taken days to follow a trail long since cold, yes, but the League would sooner be compared to slavering hounds than even the best trackers. Rubio and the nuclear reactor may be still at large, but they were finally picking up the scent.

Abdul had all but attempted to flee when he saw them exit their small boat, barely making it up the hill before being struck down in the shadow of a cabin. Barsad had seen Bane reach into his pockets, briefly, before hauling the man's limp body inside like a ragdoll.

The same man had shot Salim up on the hill all those days back, his belated reaction just barely missing the young sniper's vitals during Rubio's unexpected betrayal. Even with his injuries still aching with every movement, Barsad found himself wondering _why_ he turned. Whether he, and his peers, had been bribed in exchange for something superior to a dismantled capitalist system (although Barsad had long since devoted his life to the cause, he understood how such a complex, far-off goal could seem exhausting to the more immediate appeal of money). Perhaps they had been coerced into betraying the League's trust. Bane shared no such concerns. The utter disdain in which he handled the former League member and pressed a chip into his skin while he struggled to come to had been nothing short of callous.

Even more troubling was that Abdul had never been particularly inclined to conflict or greed. He was a follower, through and through. Barsad had selected him for his skill with languages, almost rivaling Bane in number and proving useful for translation efforts and recruiting across the globe. He reconsiders the coersion angle as the man spits out a glob of blood and turns to him with a plea in his eyes. He's not tied up, but fear makes a fitting restraint.

"Barsad..." He coughs and spits again, more this time. "Two years. Almost _three_. I served well. You know I wouldn't..."

He goes silent when Bane takes his chin and turns his gaze back.

"Where?"

There are still flickers of respect in the terrified mercenary's eyes. Bane is still a force to be reckoned with, even through whatever new loyalty that has now made the man risk his ire. Barsad, and no doubt Abdul, still remembered when Bane had sent both Alexei and Jakub's corpses down the sewer drains for inadvertantly getting three killed capturing Commissioner Gordon, for putting their entire operation and cause at risk. When he throttled the life from Omar when the man confessed to a deadly cowardice. Abdul had no reason to believe he would be spared, yet there it was. Hope. Mercy. Bane's particular brand of poison...should he decide to use it.

"Bane..." Barsad starts, only to stop when the man holds up a hand. Any other time he might have continued to stress the importance of keeping the man alive, eyes averted and tone deeply respectful. Now? Ever since Talia was put away the masked man's patience seemed to dangle on a thread. Even secure in his position he didn't want to be on the receiving end of that quiet wrath.

"Tell me and I let you live." He says with the cadence of a schoolteacher. "Remain silent and you die."

Abdul heaves out a painful breath. One of his ribs was likely cracked. "I will die no matter what I do..."

"Oh, I assure you..." Bane responds thoughtfully. "...your chances are far slimmer with me."

It's a brutal promise. The man considers this for nearly a minute, to the point Barsad wonders if he's stalling for time. Then he speaks.

"I don't know. I don't know where the reactor is being held, he didn't show me. I just moved it. But I _do_ know this." The man says, hurriedly, as if fearing the unsatisfactory answer would make his former leader lose his patience. "Rubio, he's said many things about you, about the League. He wants..." He struggles to lick his lips. "He wants to replace you. He wants...he wants it all."

Bane lowers his hand from the man's face and observes him quietly.

"So you have nothing of value to offer me."

Abdul's eyes grow wide and he shrinks back as best as he can from the man's stolid gaze. He doesn't scream or beg further. League members, even at their worst, were acquainted with death. Be it others' or their eventual own.

A peek out the window and Barsad immediately recognizes a man's signature limp along one of the catwalks. Abdul's partner had not been far behind them, apparently, no doubt checking for the strange lapse in activity. Separating the missing from the dead, Barsad had long since figured out who had turned on them. It was all a matter of when it happened. _Why_ it happened. He doesn't like look in Bane's eyes when he gives him a signal. It makes him consider over and over how he's going to pull the man aside, eventually, and insist he look inward.

Then again, maybe that would be better placed in the hands of someone else.

He moves out of view and waits for Abdul's partner to walk through the back door. The man freezes at the sight of Bane crouching in the corner, immediately reaching for a pistol his hand never reaches. A swift blow to the head and he's on the ground. The man was heavily armed, though a casual glance would betray little more than heavy pockets.

Bane rises to his feet and walks over to inspect him. Nudges the man's face into view with his foot like he's already a corpse. Doesn't even turn when Abdul bolts past them and through the open door.

The man tears down the hill and straight for a small boat by the docks. Barsad turns to give chase, only to freeze when Bane puts a hand on his shoulder. A glance up at the man and he knows this isn't mercy, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little in-between chapter to flesh a few things out. I want to do more of these...


	31. Better Now Than Never

He's late.

It was a foregone conclusion, what with his hectic lifestyle, but it didn't make him feel any less guilty about it. The past two days had been a blur of work, research and back-and-forth with Harleen. He'd add 'random bouts of fitful sleep' in there, but he'd be lying to himself and not particularly well. Even naps were unreliable and came out of left field, happening when he least expected them and always making him sit up in a filthy sweat before hitting the thirty minute mark. He's half-convinced whatever he breathed in that night at Old Gotham messed up his brain for good.

He hated the fact he wanted to see his mother's face with that near-crystal clarity one more time. Hated _himself_ for wanting to take a friendly stroll down Old Gotham's streets at the wrong right time and see if he can't see his grandmother, too, and apologize for a million things no reasonable person would ever blame themselves for. He was looking forward to punching Scarecrow or his copycat or _whoever_ in the throat when he found them.

" _Got an acquaintance of an acquaintance of an acquaintance with a cousin saying he found out where Scarecrow's been staying since the ward went belly up. Not there anymore, but it's a trail._ " Harleen chirped over the line. He could hear pops of gunfire and the occasional sound of glass shattering in the background. From the sound of her tone she'd been taking a morning stroll. " _You onto anything yet, Sherlock?_ "

"Got more progress trying to find Scarecrow than the clean slate, I hate to say." He'd responded in-between brushing his teeth. "You sure your friend can't just change their name and live off the grid for a while?"

" _No can do, Rob._ " He was pretty sure he heard something explode a second later. " _Not with her record!_ "

Anyone else and he'd ask if he should call her back at a better time. Then again, this _was_ the woman formerly known as Harley Quinn. "Do I get to _know_ about this friend you're asking me to get something illegal from?"

" _If I'm tryin' to get something to wipe her identity, why would I go around tellin' everyone who she is?_ " Another explosion and she'd snapped indignantly at someone nearby, " _Watch it, bud!_ "

' _Guess we all got our secrets still._ ' He had thought. ' _You must be pretty worried about her. Though I'm still not entirely convinced you're not seeking it out for yourself._ '

No sooner did Blake step out of the shower did he get _another_ call from Reilly asking him to drop by the elementary. Apparently Tiya had missed one too many absences and was receiving threats of expulsion, but with Joel still down with the flu he didn't want to leave him even in Finn's capable hands. Even worse, Jay is in trouble for talking back to one of the teachers. He goes back and forth throughout the city constantly glancing at his clock, dropping by the store to grab some soup (a tedious affair thanks to the still-increased security measures) before putting on his best air for the principal.

"Are you John Blake?" He'd been asked when he walked into the office, both boys sitting in the corner fiddling with their pockets and looking more than a little miserable. The assistant principal had been at the end of her rope before he even shut the door, citing how it was _hard enough_ following lockdown protocol twice per week and keeping frazzled parents soothed over recent events without calling in students for petty behavior. He'd schooled his face into something more appeasing in an attempt to lower her hackles, but had only made it worse.

"Are you even taking this seriously?" She had pointed a red-tipped finger at Tiya in particular. "At least I can't _hear_ Jay half the time. Do you know what foul things come out of your boy's mouth?" The casual audism makes his mouth twitch, but he pushes it down.

"Sure I do. He's a kid." He'd said, politely, calmly, trying to set a good example to the boys looking two wrong words away from crawling out the half-open window. "But as long as they're doing well in their classes I don't see the-"

"That's _exactly_ it, Mr. Blake. Tiya, for all his...loudmouthed tendencies, is getting passing grades. I can't say the same for Jay." Another ten minutes where he did little but nod and offer the occasional disappointed look and he was pretty sure the woman was long overdue for a good therapy session. The consequences were plain -- either they started getting their act together or they'd have to miss a good chunk of their schooling. Pulling them aside in the corner he had lowered his voice detailing the consequences of a missed education. Not for her sake, but for theirs'.

"I don't want you to end up like Tom." It had been hard saying the boy's name out loud. Even in the mess of recent events his untimely demise in the storm drains was too fresh. It was harder saying it again for Jay, moving his hands with a deliberate slowness and making sure recognition clicks in the kid's eyes before offering the assistant a few friendly parting words and heading back to the car. Didn't matter they were both still a few years shy of aging out. Time always won, in the end.

It's a quiet drive on the way back to the orphanage. Despite being uncharacteristically sullen in the back seat they make a big show of helping him prepare Joel's lunch, Jay washing dishes and Tiya prepping the stove. Tired as he was, it was hard not to smile a little. A classic boy's apology. He'd sit them down and have a closer heart-to-heart soon when he wasn't on a schedule. One thing at a time. ...Sort of.

He can just make out Joel's dark head in the bundle of pillows when he brings up soup and toast. Reilly is snoring softly in a chair in the corner, arms crossed over his chest and a newspaper draped over his eyes. He's careful not to disturb him, shutting the door with his foot and treading lightly on the creaky floorboards.

"Blake...?" A messy sniffle and shuffle of blankets. "Blake...?"

"Joel? Joel?" He responds, making a show of cupping a hand over his eyes and attempting to find him in the cluttered room. The boy giggles tiredly and waves an arm.

"I'm right here. I'm sick." Blake cringes when the boy sneezes and tries and fails to cover up the mess with his hands. "...I need a tissue."

He mops up the boy's face and urges him to take a few sips of the soup after taking his temperature. A little higher than he'd like, but the boy looks more tired than delirious -- it was likely the last vestiges of a winter cold spreading around before spring finally got its act together (though who ever _really_ did in Gotham). He notices the boy's cookbook has a few crumpled tissues poking out as makeshift bookmarks. Blake delicately replaces them with clean ones and makes a mental note to wash his hands soon.

"I wanna..." Joel pokes at a page, trying to sort out his thoughts through a congested head. "I don't know...if, uh...if banana bread is the best bread...for parties..."

"I think it's pretty good." Blake says, propped up on one elbow and reading over his shoulder. He's glad Reilly can't see his shoes on the bedsheets. "Maybe you can put blueberries in it and make it better."

Joel's eyes go round and he almost misses his mouth taking another bite of soup. "I can _do_ that?"

Blake can't help but laugh, keeping his voice low and giving the kids messy curls a ruffle. "You can do whatever you want. Just make sure you learn the rules before you break them. You don't want to start mixing in pepper instead of sugar."

"Okay. Yeah." He says, pinching his brows together in an attempt to focus. "The sieve..." Another page and he's yawning like a lion. Poor kid had school, therapy _and_ extracurriculars to focus on the majority of the week. Even when he was sick he was still sticking his nose in a book. It was passion, of course, but a part of him always feared about the side-effect of the boys' tense lifestyles. He didn't want any of them to overwork like he did. At least, not until they were adults and had little choice.

"You really should be getting some sleep, though. Your new recipes will be there when you wake up." Joel squirms defiantly when he starts to tuck him in. "Come on. You won't get better without rest. Look at Reilly. He's way ahead of the game." As if in response the old Father gives a hard snore and shifts in his chair. Joel opens his mouth to argue, but whatever he has to say is interrupted with another massive yawn.

"When is Trevor gonna live with us?" He mumbles sleepily as Blake picks up the half-eaten bowl and dims the lights. "I want...her to sleep in my bed...but Tiya said he got dibs..." Blake's stomach sinks and he offers him a small smile.

"I...don't know, kid." It was vague, yes, but honest enough. He'd gotten one call from someone who swore they saw a wolfish-looking dog skulking around East End, but it could easily be one of the thousand strays Gotham saw filling out its streets. It was damn hard juggling so much on his plate. Either he was going to be the world's next great multitasker or another breakdown was in his future.

"Blake...?" A tiny cough cuts into his thoughts. "Are you okay?"

"...Yeah." He cracks open the window. Just enough to let a little cool air in. "'course I am."

"Can you read me some pages so I can sleep...? Just three pages. Please." Joel begs, pushing the tissue-stuffed book out of the little fort of blankets. "Pleeease."

Blake's willpower might as well be made out of tissue for all it survives the onslaught of those two huge, watery eyes. By the time he's heading to the meeting point it's nearly three hours past, having nodded off halfway on the bed in the middle of reading about the history of bread around the world. The weather has taken a turn for the worse and he can hardly make it back into his car without being blown a few feet to the side. He calls Barsad again and pushes down the deja vu when the phone rings. Pushes it down _again_ when he hear's the man's signature smooth drawl over the other line.

" _You're a little late, Blake_."

"I know, I'm sorry. There was a..." He shakes himself. "Forget it. Should I call it off?"

" _Perhaps._ " A long pause over the line. " _But come anyway._ "

Well, if that wasn't mysterious. Maybe it wasn't a good idea (calling the masked man a control freak would be putting it mildly), but fuck he was going to pass up this opportunity. Call it idealism, call it loneliness, but he knew he'd beat himself up if he didn't see him soon. He takes the train and a bus on the way down, not willing to leave his car at one of the nearby lots, and stands shivering in the fog for a few minutes before Barsad pulls up on his bike. He's still coated head-to-toe in winter clothing, the only skin he can make out the nose above his scarf and the fingers peeking out of his wool gloves.

"Good to see you." The man says. He actually sounds like he means it. It's hard not to wonder what Bane might've told him. Then again, Bane loved his secrets.

"Uh, yeah." He reaches out to shake his hand, then stops halfway. He can just make out the man panting through the puffs of air in front of his face. "You...doing all right?"

"Yes." He hands him a helmet. Blake raises his eyebrows expectantly and doesn't take it, earning a soft sigh in response. "I was injured. I'll be fine." Clearly the mercenary was _more_ than a little injured -- he can see him hunching slightly, looking worn out like he had walked all the way over.

"Bane's making you work like this?" There was being a ruthless mercenary with blood on their hands and then there was _this_. Barsad scoffs at his tone and shakes his head.

"Yes and no. He would sooner have me confined to numbers as I recover, yes, but if I can move I can work." He jiggles the helmet at him. "You're already late. Let's go."

Looking at the faint green in the distance and feeling the wet air on his face as Barsad makes their way out of Gotham, he realizes with a start he really doesn't get out enough. "So..." He calls over the roar of the engine. "How've you been?" It never hurt to start off on the right foot. He gets the feeling Barsad is smiling again when he responds.

"My kidney feels like it will fall right out of my side and sleep is difficult. Other than that, could be worse."

"Yeah." Blake chuckles. "Could be a hell of a lot worse."

It's further out than he thought. By the time he sees unusual dips in the hills and the city is a dark cluster in the distance he's sure his hands are halfway frozen to the seat and he'll never be able to move his legs again. A bundle of round tents camoflauged among the grass greet them as they clear a hill, blending in almost imperceptibly where they're clustered around the base of the mountain. He thinks he sees a light flickering above him. An outcrop? Sniper's perch? He stares up as they pass beneath it, pulling up in the middle of a dozen mercenaries talking and working.

The detective hands the helmet back to Barsad as he steps onto the wet ground and stretches his legs. The men seem more than a little curious to see him again, though some of that curiosity hints more toward confusion. It's still a little nervewracking, all things told, and he has to ignore instinct telling him to shove Barsad off the motorcycle, punch the gas and get the hell _out_ of here. He roots himself to the spot and steels his face into a pantomime of someone that wants nothing more than to be here. He's here of his own volition, after all, _damn_ it, and he was going to act like it.

"So, you see Bane's wisdom now?" One of the men says with a laugh. Blake puts on a stiff smile when the others join in. Not mocking. Not _really_.

"Something like that, yeah."

Another gestures at him from head to toe. "Still too skinny."

They proceed to offer him a wide range of commentary from his current status to whether or not he could spar like he used to, a lively chatter that almost makes them seem like everyday schmoes on the bus. It's not what irritates him, though. It's the fact he's merely uncomfortable and _not_ having some aggressive panic attack from being surrounded by the men who swarmed him like a den of rats that fateful night. He needed to figure out the killswitches in his psyche and _fast_. A burning house trips him up but a gaggle of killers barely blip on his radar? Shit, why was he even here? Why wasn't he at home staring at his navel and unraveling himself from childhood to present? 

A familiar shock of curly black hair jolts him from his reverie.

"...Salim?"

The man turns from where he's crouching. Blake pushes past the men, only to freeze at the sight of him. He looks _terrible_ , skin mottled every shade of green he can think of and a nasty gash breaking up the stubble on his chin. None of that seems to stop the guy's face from splitting into a massive grin when he realizes who's speaking to him.

" _Crocodile hunter?!_ "

His unease melts away as they come together in a tight hug. The other mercenaries mutter to one another as they look each other over, commenting on each other's new scars and poking fun at each other's hair. Salim's has grown so long as to need a ponytail, even as the curls fight to break free in the wind. He runs a self-conscious hand through his own, wondering if he should keep growing his out.

"Christ, you're beat up to hell and back. You could give the Joker a run for his money." Blake says, grinning when the guy shoves him playfully. The bruises were ugly, but the guy's chipper air suggests there was no deeper damage. That or he was much better at faking a mood than he suspected.

"Grow a real beard, _then_ speak to me." He responds, laughing when Blake rubs his chin in mock offense. "But, you look good." Salim concedes with a pat on his shoulder. "Good enough to join the League, eh?"

He starts to say no, then quickly shuts his mouth. He knows Bane wants to see him. He _doesn't_ know why he's letting him walk around his men like nothing happened. At the very least they seem to know he's no longer part of the force, more relaxed than hostile as they observe from their various posts.

"Why are you all gathering here?" Blake asks, as much as a dodge as to catch up with him. It was his little gesture of kindness that inadvertently saved everyone's asses, after all. A small part of him is deeply relieved Bane didn't sack the guy, even though Salim _had_ been pretty confident at the time.

"Lots of things." He says as he crouches again. "I have new post, up on the mountain. I keep watch for the new bunker." He holds up a small jar of what looks like paint. "Blend in like a..." He snaps his fingers as he searches for the word. "Keh-meel-on?"

"Pft. You sure you need this?" Blake says as he leans down and looks at the gaggle of supplies. "Your face already looks like moss-covered rock." Salim answers this by flicking paint on his jacket. They spend a few minutes talking about various things. How they've been holding up against Gotham's increased security measures and their plans for the next few weeks. Salim eventually trails off onto a diatribe about wanting to travel and Blake can't help but notice he doesn't bring up the source of his injuries. He wonders if he and Barsad's less-than-stellar health were related.

He doesn't so much hear Bane approach as sense him. One moment he and Salim are trading advice on stretching exercises, the next he's turning around with the rest of the men and looking at the man moving with purpose through the small camp. A hulking specter ghosting through the cold fog, almost mythical, the grainy brown of his sheepskin coat dark with rainwater and a splatter on his boots glinting maliciously. For a heartstopping moment he forgets the quiet moments they've shared together and sees a threat, staring at him through a twisted black mask.

"...You're late."

There's a tentative air to Bane's men that wasn't there before. They're deeply respectful, that much he learned on the first day, but even the practical caution feels...soured. They keep glancing sideways at him and keep to the balls of their feet like something's about to go off. Blake's face works strangely as he gets to his feet and brushes the dirt from his jeans. He thinks he's smiling.

"Yeah. Sorry about that."

A puff of white filters through the front of the mask. Bane turns and looks Barsad over for one critical moment before beckoning the detective to follow with a flick of his hand. Whether it's to check on the guy's health or silently ask why he brought Blake _anyway_ , he doesn't know. He waves goodbye to Salim and walks after him, his tent is further down and tucked into a groove in the mountain. It's a little larger than the rest, though no less camouflaged -- the masked man takes care to hose off his boots, the water turning a murky pink as it blends into the mud, before kicking off the excess water and walking inside.

Without preamble he goes straight to a small, round table and picks something up. Blake speaks into the silence, if only to cover up the uncomfortable tint in his gut.

"I know I was supposed to arrive earlier. It's just that Jay got into a fight with one of the teachers. Had to talk to the assistant principal because Reilly was stuck at home taking care of Joel, who's got a cold and can't even get out of bed without bonking into a wall..." He feels what little composure he had left over the impromptu ride already melting away under the man's withering silence. He's kept his back to him, a hulking shadow, and the detective feels his throat grow thick with anticipation and maybe something more irritable. He'd hoped he was a little happy to see him.

"The reactor is still out of my hands." His back twitches as he tends to something on the table. "When I am not visiting each neighborhood in turn I am extending myself beyong Gotham's borders to locate these defectors and rectify what Talia started. My men have their hands full guarding the storm drains and searching these frozen expanses." A deliberate pause. "My time is tight, you see."

"I'm not a teenager late for class. You can spare me the lecture." Blake responds with a bristle. "Like I said, it couldn't be helped. Just a bad day for the boys."

"Were they dying?"

"What? No." He responds, a little shocked. "They don't _have_ to be. They needed me there. It was just a-"

"Excuses." The man's dark tone is startling. "I am full up."

He opens his mouth to tell him Barsad had encouraged him to come anyway, that he didn't _mean_ to put such a huge damper on his day, that you don't raise kids with such a pessimistic view...then slowly shuts it and watches the man's back as he continues to work. If Bane wanted to flip-flop between being his weird acquaintance, on-again off-again lover _and_ mercenary leader, he could do it on his own time.

"...All right. Fine. You've made yourself loud and clear." He grabs his bag and yanks it over one shoulder. "Sorry to bother you."

Bane pauses in his ministrations.

"...John."

Blake makes no bones about his irritation and shoots the man a sour look (one he's not even sure he sees) over his shoulder before closing the tent flap behind him. Salim is nowhere to be found and, after a few careful glances, neither is Barsad. It was going to be a pain asking one of the men to drive him all the way back out. He could always walk, though it'd be a good two or three hours before he'd touch pavement again. He reaches out to the friendliest face (which isn't much to choose from) and asks for one of them.

"Leaving already?" The mercenary asks with a doubtful glance at Bane's tent.

"Something like that." He responds. "Short meeting."

The man gives him a look, pulling out his two-way and muttering something into it...only to stop halfway and incline his head.

"What is i-" Blake starts, pausing when he feels the familiar presence at his back.

"That wasn't a cue for you to leave." Bane murmurs behind him. How the hell was the man over six feet tall and so _silent_? While his men continue to work unhindered, their lowered voices and careful movements suggest they're more than a little curious as to what's going on between them. Blake turns around, drawing himself up to his fullest height (still a full head below Bane's) and looking him in the eye.

"Interesting." He responds coolly. "...because that's what it sounded like."

Now he wishes he didn't. Now that he has a closer look he can see something off about him, even if it's as muddled as the wet ground beneath their feet. Something angry. ...Weary. For a moment he seems older than Commissioner Gordon. Together they stand in the middle of the camp, staring each other down like moody strangers while the mercenaries steal glances their way. Blake sighs and drags a hand down his face when he can't take the awkward moment any longer.

"...Been a shit week." He mumbles into his fingers.

He just catches Bane's dark eyes flicking to the side. Far away.

"...Quite."

Blake shivers, his body suddenly remembering how damn cold it still is. It's not the biting chill of deep winter, no, something wetter _and_ lighter, but it didn't make him want to stay outside any longer. He thinks of what to say to keep the man's reputation in-tact, still unsure of what the other League members know about them and what lines in the sand should be drawn.

"Want to...um."

Yeah, that's subtle.

The tent is warmer, but only marginally so. He squats next to the lantern and pretends it's a fire as Bane leans over his work again. The masked man doesn't reach out to him, still not overly inclined to do so, but the way he catches and holds his gaze makes a more pleasant shiver run up his spine.

"So." Bane starts as he rummages through his supplies. "How are they?"

"Hm?" Blake blinks. "Oh, the kids? They're fine. Frustrated, but...who isn't, these days?" He sets his bag down and rubs his shoulder. "Tiya and Jay got in trouble today. Again. On the plus side, Finn finally paid off the rest of his fine. Doesn't want to look at another snow shovel for the rest of his life, but." Bane grunts his acknowledgement. Casual, but interested. Well, it's nice the man wasn't _too_ pissed off to give a shit. Blake tries to swallow down the leftover awkwardness and scrubs the cold from his hands. "For future reference, should I...not do some things around your men?" He asks. "Keep a professional air...?"

"They think you another recruit." The soft _scritch-scratch_ of nib on paper. "That's all."

"So no sneaking kisses. Got it."

"No." The man's head tilts to the side, observing something carefully. "It would be one more thing to explain to my men."

It's a subtle shift in the air, but something about Bane's tone feels a touch more relaxed than before. He holds onto it as he makes himself comfortable and observes the organized chaos of the tent. A small cot and blankets, radio equipment, a few weapons. He can spot the halfway progress of a small red scarf slung over a spare chair. It's a weird little homely touch in such an efficient space. He thinks to the man, how his brutal training and paternal nature blend together to the point he doesn't know where one ends and the other begins.

"If it makes you feel better, you're my dirty little secret, too."

"Oh?" Bane catches his gaze again, briefly, but there's no mistaking the flicker of something warmer there.

"I, uh..." He tries to think about the most roundabout way of putting the small, strange gap that only seemed to grow wider every day he wasn't around. Maybe this time being straightforward was the way to go. A straightforward that comes out as little more than a hasty mumble in the back of his head.

' _Blake, you hopeless wreck._ '

"...Relax." A shuffle of papers. "I will finish this, then we can talk." Blake can't take the nervous energy and makes his way over to look over the spread. He doesn't expect to see the aged yellow of parchment, nor the downright curly script of Bane's handwriting.

"What are these?"

"Rendezvous points." He picks up a divider and taps it along the paper. The old-fashioned method is fascinating and Blake does little more than stare as Bane takes delicate, minute measurements across the detailed drawings. He's silent for a few minutes before speaking. "A protest will be held in the downtown square in three weeks' time. A culmination of Gotham's struggles. The stage has been set, but the final act must eventually make itself clear." Another _tap_. "A little demoralization will offer the populace reprieve."

He wonders if the blood on his boots has anything to do with that. "Yeah. I've heard rumors about it." The detective replies, resisting the urge to drag a finger along the ink and trace each route -- he can just make out his neighborhood in the etches. "More from your supporters than anyone else. Lots of people still in denial this is happening at all." He snorts. "That immigrant district you were at...heard one of the mayors is thinking of giving the local construction workers a raise. Seems like you're rubbing off on everyone."

"You've been busy." It's not a question. Blake shrugs.

"Sure. Trying to balance the orphanage alongside my job and figure out the deal with Old Gotham. Got put away for a day when I broke curfew. Couldn't get any sleep because of the drug...or _whatever_ it is...so it felt like forever." He inwardly cringes when he remembers Bane actually was put away for a lifetime. He quickly adds, "Though it was nothing compared to what others have gone through. Of course, I was also bailed out..." His voice lowers. "By Gordon."

Bane doesn't even look up. It was somehow worse than calling him an outright douchebag. "It was either that...or be locked up for months. I couldn't do that to my kids again. Even if...it'd be fair." He feels itchy with wrongdoing. Not only was he a failure who had some brand-new phobia, he was a damn hypocrite.

He jerks when Bane snaps his fingers right in front of his face.

"Don't waste it."

"Waste...what?"

"Your time." He closes the divider with a _click_. "I can practically hear the gears turning in your head."

"Yeah. Right." He mutters. ' _Don't, uh, want to waste yours, either._ '

If he can sense the moodiness in his voice, he doesn't comment on it. "This is the second time you've been let out of a cage of your own doing." Bane says as he pulls out a small toolbox and sets the divider and pens inside. "Be that as it may...I also have not yet been led to believe you will waste this opportunity, either."

The tiny smile that threatens to rise to his lips dies away. Bane glances sideways at him, brows furrowing a little as he attempts to figure him out. "You mentioned visiting Old Gotham. Many of the disenfranchised come from there."

"Yeah. East End, too." He rubs his chin. "It can't be coincidence these places getting hit with so much opposition. Someone might be trying to undermine your movement. That or just get rid of the competition. There's only been a few casualties, but that's not to say there won't be more if the department keeps spinning its wheels and people keep fucking up..." He stops and looks at the man. "...What?"

"Speak your mind, John."

That was just it. He had no clue where to start with the damned thing. He tries to think of how to put that bizarre night. The little cluster of failures that clung like lint to the back of his mind. Bane kneels and scrounges around in the corner for something. A small, familiar box is in his hands when he walks back over. The earthy scent caresses his nose and kicks up old emotions. Earl Grey.

"I froze up." He feels like he's sixteen and going to confession (at Reilly's behest) all over again. "There was a fire. Was trying to find Trevor...that's what we agreed on naming her...and I ran into it. There was a mother begging for someone to go in and grab her daughter and...I just..." He takes in a shaky breath. Time gets finicky, then, and somewhere between his shameful thoughts and next words Bane is holding out a mug of steaming tea. It's not Earl Grey, however. Something green.

"...found out the kid got out alive covered in third-degree burns. I just woke up and I was on the ground. It was a blur." Everything tumbles out. "Probably going to be disfigured for life. All because I froze up." He sips the tea and ignores the burn on his tongue. "...Couldn't save her. Even though I wanted to." Bane carefully tucks the box away. Blake stares at the leaves at the bottom of his cup like a personal Rorschach test. Someone else might see a half-moon or a sleeping cat. All he sees is burnt rubble.

"That _is_ unusual." He's not sure if it sounds like a compliment or a dig. He's probably being oversensitive, but it doesn't make him feel any better. "...A leftover trauma, perhaps."

"That's what I'm trying to figure out." Blake takes a deeper gulp, wincing, and holds his cup out for more. Bane steeps the leaves. Whatever these are, they're heady enough to hold up against another filtering. It's an incredibly strong flavor, more like alcohol than tea, but the warmth that settles in his chest like honey is addicting. "I've never felt like this before. At least, not concerning...that. I've had panic attacks. Not often, but. These are different. It must be something that happened recently."

"Could it be what happened at city hall?" Bane offers as he sets the kettle back on the little portable burner. Blake stares. Opens his mouth, then shuts it. ...Of _course_. Why the hell didn't he think of that before? It was just another day when he was floored by Bane's deduction skills.

"...City hall..." His elbows dig into his knees as he leans forward and tugs at his hair, tea now forgotten. "That's...but... _why_...?"

"Why, indeed." Bane folds his hands calmly. "Fear has a way of leaving its mark, regardless of how we may view it in the moment. Your guilt, as valid as it may feel now, will do little to speed up your progress." He tilts his head. "You wish to be a detective, so consider this a personal test."

He wasn't exactly wrong. No, he wasn't wrong at all. Blake had always felt the need to carry the world on his shoulders. It's just what made sense, spending a good chunk of his childhood alone, fending for himself and trying to reason with the few good things in his life. Old habits died hard, it seemed, and his were still gurgling their death rattles. He mentally bookmarks the psychoanalysis for later and gestures to Bane with his cup.

"So, what about you?"

"Me."

"Yeah, you. What've you been up to?"

He can harbor a guess if his clothes are anything to go by -- his armored vest has been discarded along with his coat in favor of a simple black top, the shiny combat boots traded for a more worn, brown pair. The man stands to puts the burner away in some holding, ever tidy even in the cramped space. Blake studies the way his biceps twitch in the light, then glances back to his cup when the man turns around.

"I already told you." He replies sardonically. "Or do you hope I'll spill my soul over tea?"

Well. Of course he wants that. That Bane would bring it up like a punchline makes him wonder just how much progress they've made over the months. He wants the man to stop shoveling whatever's clawing away at him as deep as possible into the ground where he thinks it can't be dug up again. To _trust_ in him a little, maybe. Blake didn't think much of his abilities to save anyone, but that never stopped him from wanting to help. He always wanted to help. He has to sort the words in his head carefully, the minute cracks in the man's facade as wide as a canyon.

"You're only human, Bane. You may be constructing a larger-than-life image, but at the end of the day...you're human." He takes a sip. "Even I have a hard time believing you've completely internalized all the work you put in on the daily. What happened to Talia."

Bane's eyes slowly narrow.

"Whatever you hope to hear from me..." He says, not sitting down again. "...dash to it to the ground and move on."

He wasn't the only one who could pick up on clues.

"Now _that_ sounds like a dodge."

"Dodging what, your impudence?" His voice lowers in warning. "I did not become Bane to _grieve_ , John. To _dwell_ on have-nots and should-haves. The people needed a replacement for the city's failures, not a new one. So I am whatever they need. My personal issues are dealt with, even without your gratification." He spits the next words out like an insult. "Your tears and laments."

"You're _not_ dealing with it, though." He stresses. "You're acting like it didn't even _happen_. Pretending your problems don't exist just puts off the inevitable."

"And what, exactly, is that?"

"Would you just _answer_ me, damn it?" He has to hold himself back from lobbing the cup right at his stubborn bald head. "Why do you think snuffing out your humanity is the way to go? Why do you think that's what _anyone_ needs from you? You're exhausted, Bane. Hell, I can see it all over you. You're always, _always_ telling me to take better care of myself but right now you're making Barsad look sprightly. Maybe you can fool everyone else, but you can't fool me and that's _kind of_ your fault."

The sudden quiet in the tent makes him realize how loud he's being. He swallows back the next words and waits for Bane's reaction so he doesn't come off as browbeating. Not that it does much good. The man reminds him of a wild dog, just inches away from lunging forward and snapping at him. Bane takes in a slow, scraping _drag_ of a breath, his fingers flicking with some temperamental energy like he wants to grab something and crush it.

"I lost my humanity _long_ ago." The mask's silver wires glitter in the lamplight. "You would be the one to give it back to me?"

"...I'll answer your question with another." He finishes the rest of his tea and sets the cup down. "Why do you keep seeking me out?"

Bane goes entirely still at that. His eyes darken, furiously, and the detective wills down the need to bolt or roll onto his back like a submissive hound. There's still a quiet satisfaction in making the poetic orator struggle with his next words, even if the source is...well, sad. ' _I'm not afraid of you._ ' He thinks as he holds his gaze. ' _Well, maybe a little. But not enough to drop this. Not enough to drop you._ '

"You can't intimidate me into not caring." He says when the man remains silent, softening his tone even as he knows Bane wasn't the kind of person to need a delicate hand. "Like it or not, that's what happens when you let people in." Exhaustion suddenly slumps his shoulders and he fiddles with his empty cup. "...They worry." The tent shivers like a living thing against the cold wind buffeting it from outside. Bane lets out a long sigh and looks past him at something he can't see. It's a flicker of vulnerability, precious and sudden, and he has the impulsive urge to get up and hold him tight.

"I should have known better than to leave a detective with questions." He mutters, almost sounding surly in the admission. Blake holds back a smile. He feels like even the slightest movement could jar the moment.

"You don't have to carry the world on your shoulders." He ignores the strange buzzing in his ears as he adds, "Let me help." It's the anti-magic word. He knows. But whatever wound he's pulled open has made the man more susceptible to it. He actually looks at him, up and down, as if actually considering it. Then there's a _tap-tap_ on the front of the tent.

"Enter."

Blake is sure he grinds through a full inch of teeth when Barsad walks in. Here he was thinking _he_ was the king of bad timing. The cup provides a nice distraction as the mercenary confers with his boss, keeping his dagger-laden gaze on anything but the man's unintentional interruption.

"There's a storm coming." Barsad is saying, scarf pulled down and face as impassive as ever. "The boats will be delayed until tomorrow morning."

Bane flicks a hand in acknowledgement and the man spares a glance for Blake before walking out. The detective can still feel their conversation hanging over the room like a pall. Something he doesn't want to navigate, but he's already started digging. There was no reason to stop until he hit something. Bane is already putting on his leather coat and he's not sure what the hell to do with himself until the man speaks.

"Come. I have something to show you."

It's not a storm. It's something _much_ nastier. Even when Bane leads him inside the mountain through a guarded entrance, the temporary relief Blake feels at receiving shelter from the angry winds dwindles quickly at the unfamiliar environment. Miles and miles of cold, smooth stone stretch out around him, carved out a long time ago and recently repurposed by the seemingly endless efforts of the League. Patting along the walls for purchase he can feel the occasional unlit torch. Bane strolls right past them.

"Our second base of operations." His already soft voice echoes into a whisper along the passage. "Retrofitted with multiple bunkers, a litany of escape routes and an independent sewer line. Even should an enemy force find their way in, there's no guarantee they will find their way back out. A back-up plan when Gotham takes a turn for the worse."

Blake almost trips on a groove in the stone. "Hasn't it already?"

A hoarse chuckle. Blake hurries a little so he doesn't lose the man when he reaches a split in the path. He stares down one of the tunnels, a yawning blackness barely distinguished against the flat gray, before willing his aching legs to continue. Gotham may be a hellhole, but even he can't imagine willingly making residence in such a depressing environment. Then again, Bane was probably used to it.

"Keep any prisoners here?"

"Three...for now."

' _That's right. The sewer monster and the...not-so-obvious sewer monster._ ' He thinks as he trails after the man carefully, trying not to trip on the uneven ground again. ' _No idea about the third. Unless he's got more prisoners than I know about..._ '

"You know...the alligator man spoke to me." He starts. "Back in the storm drains."

"As amicable as ever, John Blake." He responds down the stretch of the hall. How'd he get so far? "You have a talent." Blake's not sure what's funnier -- his response or the fact he seems wholly unsurprised.

"Have you heard him... _it_ talk?"

"No. It seems rather disinclined to discussing the weather. Perhaps I should bring you during the next interrogation session."

"Uh, I'm good."

The caves wind, stretch and winds again, makeshift stairs crudely hacked into the gradual rise of the rock and hidden codes carved into the walls like braille when his fingers accidentally find them. He expects to see some of his men, but the only sounds that carry are those of his footsteps and the occasional echo of Bane's breath. By the time they reach the higher levels of the peak Blake is convinced his lungs are filled with old, musty socks. He bumps a shoulder against the wall and starts hacking into the ground while the masked man observes him a few feet away in the now gray light from the outcrop openings.

"Just...give me a minute..." He wheezes, eyes stinging from the sudden light. "Ah, shit..."

"When you remember how to breathe..." Bane says wryly. "...stand out here with me."

He opens his mouth to retort, only for a crack of thunder, loud enough to make his ears pop, sending him jumping a good foot in the air. He'd turn and run right back from where he came from if not for the hypnotizing streak of purple slithering across his vision through the gap in the rocks.

"Holy." He gasps. " _Crap_."

"Some in Gotham call this the Vengeful Peak, yes?" Bane leans against the wall and watches the flashes illuminating the bloated clouds. "A fitting title."

"You're not going to wax philosophical about me nearly wetting myself?" He says when he makes his way over, wind ruffling the sweat from his hair with a cool hand.

"No." Another flash and he just glimpses Bane's eyes curved in a smile. "You could use the change of scenery."

The detective walks through the opening, leaning out on the precipice and ignoring the clutch of his stomach when the hundreds of feet of empty air make themselves clear with a faint whistle. They're higher up than he thought, miles of green and gray land stretching out into an eventual gray with only splashes of intermittent lightning hinting at more just beyond the surface. The hairs on his neck stand on end when a bolt lands a little too close to the cliff face, followed by a nearly earsplitting snap of thunder. It's beautiful and more than a little scary. Not unlike a certain someone beside him.

Blake kneels, as much to rest his aching legs as to prevent vertigo from making him the world's most ridiculous headline. "You ever, uh..." It's hard to put the exhilaration to words, but wherever his hesitance left it wasn't coming back. "You ever feel good being reminded of how small and insignificant you are?"

"No." Of course not. Blake purses his lips at the monosyllabic answer. Bane crouches beside him with a soft grunt. "But the sentiment is a familiar one, yes. I would watch the lightning when I was younger, the rare time it would pass over the pit, and wonder as to the feelings it inspired." He lets thunder growl overhead before continuing. "Fearsome. Sometimes awe-inspiring."

"How would the pit handle rain?" He asks. "Doesn't sound like it would be well-equipped to handle a bunch of water in such a dry environment."

"Precisely. Sometimes the guards would cover the entrance with a tarp to spare us the worst." He tilts his head. "Other times they would...forget...and the pit would nearly freeze." No matter how hard the wind blows, Bane doesn't seem to move at all. "Drowning was a rare death, but it wasn't known as 'Hell on Earth' for nothing." His voice becomes coarse. Almost resentful. "So much water. How Gotham has managed to avoid suffocating, I will never know."

"Guess nobody views any one thing the same way." He says, wincing as a fat raindrop hits his hair. The play of the weather is hypnotic, the clouds growing darker by the moment as they carry thunder over Gotham in a mockery of April showers.

"No." He responds. "An ugliness can be found everywhere. Even where least expected."

He doesn't have to elaborate further. The regret in his voice is enough.

"At least it goes the other way around." He says, flinching involuntarily when lightning forks above. "Gives you a bit of hope...huh?"

There's no response.

"...Bane?"

The man is gone. For a horrible second he's afraid he jumped, but the scraping of feet behind him turns his attention. He gets to his feet carefully, inching back into the dark of the cave as the air threatens to toss him to the side. The only reprieve from the black are the unreliable blinks of lightning just feet away. It's hard to make use of his senses when they're overwhelmed by cold and bursts of noise. He tries to focus, but never seems to touch anything more than blank space. The air moves and he's whipping around, as quick as he can make himself, only for the man to curl menacing fingers around his windpipe and vanish as soon as he appeared.

"Faster. A touch more cautious." The air bristles and Blake can feel his heartbeat like a bassline beneath his feet. "Still hesitant."

A pop quiz, then. He could do that. The man was a powerhouse. More experienced than he'd likely ever be. All Blake had as fitting contest were his wits, even as both Bane and the weather were doing their best to scramble them. He hadn't forgotten the man's brutal lessons. If anything they were muscle-memory now. An easier instinct he could play off of. The detective moves forward and considers the inky darkness and smooth stone. How Bane could be right behind him or twenty feet away. He couldn't follow his breath, the characteristic wheezing gone now and making him wonder if he was holding it or just breathing through his nose.

"You got a funny idea of what constitutes a date, Bane."

"You can't talk your way out of this one, John." A rumbling laugh, as fearsome and inviting as the thunder outside. "Show me what you've learned."

The slapdash mix of years and recent months come to a head then and there. He checks his breathing and stance checklist-style, even as his body twitches in an attempt to reason with the unreasonable. The detective's mind was a hodgepodge of useful information, not so much disciplined as incredibly flexible, and he's already seeing possibilities in his mind in the span of time it takes to flex his fingers and ball them into fists. The first would be impulsive, but impractical. The second would be more conventional, unpredictable for _him_ , maybe, but without a good follow-up. So he chooses the third.

Blake takes a few tenuous steps to the left. He can't see or hear him, but there's no denying the sheer _force_ that moves just beyond his comprehension like a predator. The lightning cracks again, a whiplash of light and sound, and it doesn't even penetrate the deep space. Nor would he need it to. Blake takes advantage of the split-second noise to lunge forward and drive a fist right into where the man's head should be...and _is_. His fist hits the side of the mask and sends a satisfying _thud_ into the air, but his victory is short-lived when the man slips a foot behind his and sends him falling backwards. Only Bane's swiftness catches him at the last second before his head hits the ground.

Maybe things have changed more than he thought.

"...Clever." He hears above him, the man's thick arm curled in the small of his back and holding him firm just centimeters above the hard rock. "But what would you have done without the lightning's cover?"

Blake shrugs. "Pick another plan."

The masked man chuckles his approval as he lowers him down. Blake doesn't get up, instead choosing to lay on the ground and catch his breath. His whole body stiffens as the man drapes his full weight over him. A warm and massive presence that has him suddenly losing interest in everything else.

"And how would you escape now?"

The detective's body is a bundle of nerves, delighting in the man just barely keeping himself on his elbows. Bane's heart thumps calmly against his chest, nothing like his own, pattering away like a woodpecker as he gulps in the man's scent with each recovering breath.

"You're assuming I want to."

"You _would_ want to learn how to get a man like me off."

"I can think of a few ways to do that."

" _John_."

He chokes back laughter. It's a reprimand, to be sure, but there's no heat behind it. At least, not through words. He can definitely feel Bane's interest pressing against his thigh. The mechanical tang of his breath as he leans in closer and inspects him with a wry note in his voice.

"Sometimes I forget how cheeky you can be."

He still can't fully see his face, still not having Bane's almost supernatural gift for navigating the dark, but he's nothing if not competent at reading people in other ways. Something in Bane's tone makes him prop up on his elbows. Just enough to get closer.

"And sometimes you're a little too serious." He can feel the man's comeback coming in like a haymaker. "Just...hear me out. Sometimes it's enough to enjoy the moment. How can you come back from anything unless you just take a breath?" He chuckles. "I mean, I thought I was a hypocrite, but..."

He's still for a second. Blake twists a little beneath him, still pinned, but just manages to ghost his lips over the curve of the man's throat and feel the faint bumps of old scars. The thunder drowns out the man's thoughtful _hum_ , but he can feel it rumble through his skin.

"Would I follow your wisdom..." Bane says, thoughtfully. "I would do little else, I fear."

He opens to retort with something clever, but the words dwindle down into a shy, warm lump in his throat. Damn if the man couldn't be flattering when he wanted to be, even laying on cold ground with a storm raging in the corner. This would be the part where he'd pull him in for a passionate kiss, a bit of physical gratitude for making him temporarily feel like _that_ , but even if Bane didn't have a mask he'd probably smack him in the eye or something. So he substitutes wit for action and bumps his lip against the front, where the metal almost stings with cold.

Bane pauses, as if in surprise. Blake's skin tightens with goosebumps when the man slowly pushes up his shirt, the heat of his hand leaving a dying trail everywhere it goes. He lets out a plaintive groan when he suddenly pulls back and chooses instead to straddle his hips between his thick thighs. Moving his hands to his wrists to hold him firm. Blake considers this new development. Bane wasn't the _only_ one with a trump card. He knows how well the man can see in the dark. Knows he can see him work his tongue over his lips deliberately. See him hooding his eyes. Bane's grip turns rough, then, and he knows he's got the upper-hand.

He bucks his hips up against his, trying to urge Bane down, needing him close for every damn reason in the book. He can't exactly _move_ him, not when he's six foot something and feels like a brick wall, but Bane reconciles with good humor and curls closer. Close enough Blake can move his lips and teeth along his chest, kissing and nipping at the damp cotton shirt, when...

Rubble and dust. Fire and glass. Screams choked through smoke as an earthquake trembles beneath his feet. Everything shaking and too hot for comfort. A shadow protecting him from the inevitable blink of a sudden death. Bane must feel something in him change because he lifts himself again, just enough to brush his forehead against his and say his name.

"...ohn." Blake shivers as he tries to come back into himself. To break through the block that's settled in his mind and made every breath feel impossible. Bane repeats himself, patiently, monotonously. As if he's seen all this before.

"What the fuck." The detective breathes, arousal gone and replaced with a horrible, numbing chill. "What the _fuck_. What...how? Why do I keep coming back to that...?"

Bane starts to rise, no longer pinning him down, only to stiffen when Blake grabs his coat and holds him in a desperate grip. " _Why?!_ " He asks, too loud, voice banging off the stone walls. "You're not afraid of a goddamn thing, Bane. So tell me. I need to know _why_ I can't stop thinking about it. I don't get it. I don't-" He's rambling, panicking, needing Bane far away and as close as possible at the same time.

"Ground yourself." He murmurs. "It's not real."

He realizes somewhere in the back of his mind he's having an attack. The detective bumps his forehead against the man's chest, trying to jog some sense into himself, distantly _wanting_ to stop and pull himself together and stop freaking out and being wholly, completely unable to. The thunder is gone now, replaced by a heavy downpour that fills the cave with a cold, musty scent.

"I can't...I can't have that happen." He chokes out. His worst fear in a sea full of them. "Not to my boys. If something happens to them and I _freeze up_..."

Bane's hand is behind his head. He doesn't remember sitting up, now halfway in the man's lap and clawing at his shirt like it's the only thing keeping him from being swept away into the storm outside. It takes him a moment to realize he's stroking his hair. A repetitive petting that dulls the panic and blunts its edge. It's the gentleness he's been craving and his throat grows hot and thick as the man holds him against his broad chest, the minutes ticking by unheeded.

"Trauma runs a jagged line." He says against his ear. "Sometimes...your body offers answers without questions."

Bane knew trauma. Hell, he was practically created from it. He's no longer walling off his exhaustion with the curt affect of authority, now sounding as old and stretched-thin as someone who's seen so much death only can. Guilt curls in Blake's stomach. He doesn't want to bring him down like this. He opens his mouth to tell him. That he wants to _help_ , not conjure up bad memories and be another weight on his ankle, but all he can croak out against the gentle _thump-thud_ of the man's heart is...

"...How do you do it, Bane?"

A low _hum_.

"I channel the pain into everything I do. Nothing has influenced my hand more." A soft sigh. "...And other times I do not. You made that clear. I would...I am _not_...at my best. No one can be...all the time."

Another flash, bleak and faint. He sees his eyes and the mourning that's always been there.

"I'm sorry."

"For what, John?" He's not angry or disappointed. He should be, in someone that apparently had so much potential only to squander it when it counted most...but he's not. "For what?"

Rain curtains the openings in a gray haze and casts the two figures in a long, blurry shadow. The wind slows down to a cool breeze, as if the storm is taking pity on her subjects.

\--

The moment they make their way out of the cave and back outside they're hit with the full force of the storm, the sky seemingly darker than the black they left and each droplet as hard as hail. They're sopping wet once they return inside, Bane's men having long since retreated to their tents and mountain holes. The small fires and supplies are gone, as if they were never there.

The masked man flicks on a lantern, clearly for his sake than his own, and Blake can't help smiling to himself as he undresses. He has to peel off every article of clothing save for his briefs, only to hang up those when they prove too damp for comfort. He stretches out the crooks in his back and neck with a groan and shakes the last of the wetness from his hair, then glances over his shoulder as Bane starts to shed his clothes where the light can barely reach. It's not modesty, he knows by now. He was simply more comfortable in the dark. A home he could find no matter where he went? Or another habit that also refused to die? Maybe he'd never find out. Until then...

Bane is folding his shirt carefully over one arm, lost in thought, when he walks over. He turns, brows raised curiously...only for his dark eyes to move up and down with lascivious appreciation, not so much as flinching when the detective presses his cold body against his. Maybe Blake _was_ a little on the skinny side, but he couldn't find it in himself to give a damn. Not when their little moment up in the mountain hideout was both too much and not nearly enough. As if following his train of thoughts one calloused hand reaches over to slide down his back, then his sides, squeezing appreciatively along each muscle. The pain of the past hour feels like a distant dream...if that.

"I've embraced warmer snow." He huffs when Blake reaches up to hook arms around his neck and better soak in the heat radiating from his chest. The detective grins against his collar.

"I can go back outside if you want."

"No."

It doesn't take long for the man's warmth to spread into him, anyhow. Even his fatigues were mostly dry due to some waterproof material. Bane's hand continues to wander over his bare thigh (pausing briefly to grip his ass firmly, clearly one of his favorite areas), the shirt now discarded and freeing his other arm to hook around his waist and keep him close. Blake's prior exhaustion starts to melt away under the man's rapt attention -- every single touch is a study, fascination clear in just how delicately and ponderous Bane works his way up and down him with light yet lustful touches. He's eager to peel himself apart layer by layer, offer every last inch of himself to the man he had left and to Hell with any lingering doubts.

Then Bane halts over the tattoo again. Questioning.

"Got it the day I turned eighteen and left St. Swithin's." Blake whispers into the crook of his shoulder. "Losing mom and dad made me do...a lot of things I regretted. I wanted to remind myself they were more than their loss. That, even though they're not around anymore, they'd always be a positive force in my life. So I got three robins." He mouths along Bane's thick neck, not quite kissing, not quite biting. "One for each of us."

"Mm." It's somewhere between a sigh and a grunt as he leans his head to the side and encourages his exploration, a rumble that tickles Blake's chest and rattles him all the way to his core. Bane thumbs each drawing in turn, grazing lower but not quite touching him. "...Why robins?"

"It's...well. It's my birth name." Blake rocks his hip into his hand, urging him to continue. "It used to...I used to be Robin John Blake."

"Robin." He says the name like a prayer. Blake wants to hear it again. A sudden, giddy rush of adrenaline has the detective pulling back and placing both hands on the man's chest, urging him backwards. Bane stiffens, momentarily unsure, then takes a few cautious steps back until he's touching the stool. He sits down and watches with increasing interest as Blake kneels in front of him on the rough tarp.

He's more familiar with his brace now, as well as what it's for, but he's careful nonetheless as he goes about unhooking each belt. It's an elaborate contraption, likely custom made, and it's only now feeling the aged leather with his own hands does he know it's years old. He pushes down the crawl of embarrassment with a firm hand because _damn it_ he wants to enjoy himself. Even more, he wants Bane to. It's pretty foreign, being consumed by this overwhelming desire to please. He might have to get used to it, especially when he looks and smells and feels so goddamn good.

Blake has always been particular about details and Bane was a virtual treasure trove. Hard muscle, earthy scents, the sheer force of presence that always seemed to accompany him no matter what he did. The masked man is leaning back and observing him between his spread legs, as imperious and casual as a king. The lantern light shows off his broad thighs, but dies halfway up his torso, shrouding him in mystery that must be second-nature. Blake's hands shake a little on the last strap and he chews on his lip to bring him back to reality. He might be imagining it, but Bane's breath seems to quicken when he does.

There's no reason to be nervous. No reason to treat this like another pop quiz he didn't study for. He wouldn't admit it without at least a drink or two, but it's been...years. On both the receiving and giving end. He could've sworn he was fine with winging things, but here is, on his knees with a dry mouth and second-thoughts. Bane's expression is masked, and he must know it, because he reaches down and threads fingers in his hair much like he did at the cave. Soothing. Grounding.

"John..." He starts, voice a little husky. Blake's stomach twists into an appreciative knot. He nuzzles his head against his hand, kissing his palm in-between clumsy words.

"It's fine, I want to. I just...miss you. ...I..." He leans forward, kissing up the length of his arm along the way, and nibbles at the bulge in his jeans. Mouths down it and feels it grow against his mouth. "I _want_ to."

Bane's breath grows coarse, a ragged scrape against the tangle of his mask. He pulls away momentarily. Blake hears that familiar _hiss_ from his mask, then the hand returns, petting his hair all the way down to the nape. A silent encouragement.

Fear of failure and a dozen other shitty little kernels of self-doubt die in light of arousal as Blake threads through his jeans and pulls him out, careful not to snag his coarse, dark hair on the zipper's teeth. He busies himself catching leftover drops of rainwater on his tongue, moving one hand up and down his length as he does, endlessly grateful they're no longer cold. He guides his lips in-between the gaps of his fingers. Bane's stomach hitches with every touch. Flickers of his skin like jolts of electricity. He runs a hot tongue lower, over his balls as best he can through the tangle of hair, and gets only the faintest groan in response. Not enough. He doesn't want Bane to hold back. Not anymore.

He moves back up, overeager, and takes Bane in. Tries to work in as much as he can, to shock him into more of a reaction, but Bane is thick and crazy long and he can barely get in a few inches before his gag reflex is hollering at him. It's almost impossible to pull back, though. Not when the taste of him is addicting, musky and salty and distinctly... _Bane_. The man had always been picky in letting him touch him. He remembers how he'd taken control the first time at Swithin's. How he'd been a little more flexible the second time...if only by his standards. Now Blake was getting a proverbial front-row seat. He won't lie. It feels like a pop quiz.

Whether or not he's doing okay is hard to discern. The only clue to what the man's thinking is the uneven cadence of his breath. He seems content to let Blake take the lead, for now.

...So Blake does. The detective pulls back right as the man is starting to pant and twitch his hips. Moves along his cock with feather-light kisses all the way up to the leaking tip. Bane goes rigid.

" _John_."

_Now_ he's getting somewhere. He tries not to laugh at the man's tone (impatient and agonized), but it comes out anyway. Maybe he'd mess with him another time, but not tonight.

"Just wanted to make sure you were paying attention." Blake says, licking the dampness from his lips. "...Do what you want." He says into the dark. "I don't mind."

Blake can't see, but he knows Bane is watching him intensely. The fingers that had been petting the nape of his neck and rolling through his hair grip, suddenly, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to keep him in place. The fat head of his cock moves back along his lips, teasing, and Blake opens his mouth eagerly. He even tries to lean forward, only to feel Bane's hand tighten all the way to the root. Commanding. It's almost enough to make him laugh again -- he clearly took for granted their little trade in control.

He expects the pause to be filled with some burning remark. His stomach, instead, flutters when the man tilts his head back and slides in as deep as he can go. His throat bobs instinctively, trying to figure out the hard, heavy intrusion with each spasm. He's _just_ careful enough to hold back when Blake starts to choke, easing him into it inch-by-inch. He sucks in sharp breaths through his nose and urges down the natural panic that comes with a lack of air. It's not unlike sparring, he thinks distantly, where steady breathing was the key difference between a smart fighter and an exhausted heap on the ground.

After a good minute Blake's nose brushes against the man's stomach. The scratch of coarse hair tickles his lips and he has to press a hand into his thigh for balance.

"Fast learner." Bane grits out, bending down a little to lean over him, fingers digging into his scalp as he pulls Blake's head back. Then sinks back in. Then pulls out. He's slow, _achingly_ slow, but Blake can _feel_ his impatience. How the muscles beneath his hands bunch and tense as hard as iron with the instinct to pound. Blake can't move his tongue as much as he'd like, not with his size, but he urges him on with a choked, muffled moan.

That does it. Bane starts to thrust, grip on his hair turning vice-like to keep him firmly in place, stool creaking rhythmically over the roar of the storm as he reaches his climax. It's almost too rough, _too_ much, but he'd sooner walk back into the storm naked than stop. He doesn't know how (it's hard for him to think beyond the hot, heavy flesh stretching his throat and making it hard to _breathe_ -), but somehow this is one of the most intimate, vulnerable actions he's ever done. He feels helpless, yes, and somehow, not at all.

Then Bane leans forward, cock suddenly pointing down in an angle that almost hurts, and his thrusts turn erratic. Blake digs his nails into his stomach, tries to focus on his breathing, the only other warning he's given before Bane comes the painful tug on his hair that makes his eyes water. It's too much. He has to pull back, a little too soon, and he feels wet heat streak against his chin and throat. Bane is panting, almost gasping, and the hand in his hair trembles with little aftershocks. Blake has barely managed to wipe his mouth before he's being pulled up in one rough motion. His mask is a cold shock against his skin.

"Now...tell me what _you_ want." The masked man's voice is still thick with pleasure, a rumbling cadence against his throat. All wandering hands and physical promise. "Robin."

"You." Blake breathes.

The wind howls outside, furious at being ignored as Bane pushes him onto the cot and takes him in hand.

' _Just you._ '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe this chapter was actually longer? The hell am I _doing._
> 
> Also updated the tags!


	32. A Moment's Peace

It was a different kind of calm.

He had many tools to blunt trauma's knife. The harsh hand of discipline dulled its edge. The sweet kiss of anesthetic blurred its details. This sort of calm, however, was something he thought he had left behind in the pit.

There's no distant rumble of trains and traffic when he wakes. No melodic dripping of condensation. Even the storm's tempestuous rage has been soothed from howls of thunder to the faint growl of far-off winds. Nature is healing and like infection from a wound the masked man can feel the stench of the city being drawn out of him little by little. Only the occasional ministrations from Barsad as he makes his nightly rounds filter through the rain's hypnotic patter -- even in recovery he's dutiful to a fault. Bane's thoughts don't wander as they usually do in the twilight time, too focused they are on the warm body beside him and the prior hours' memories still flickering candle-like in the back of his mind.

_The push and pull of contradiction. One of the many subtle wonders of John Blake, bucking beneath him and struggling to keep his voice low and panting out beautiful obscenities between his teeth irregardless. This contradiction affects Bane, as it always eventually does. He wants to wrench out Blake's release between two fingers and forethumb. Delay it and make him beg. The detective notices this. Attempts to wrangle some semblance of control in his rarer, teasing manner._

_"You're hard again."_

_"And you give the storm fair competition."_

_"Oh, shut up."_

_A smart mouth that gets smarter with nerves. It fascinated him how the man could be downright playful when the mood struck him, something more spontaneous yet no less honest than when he was spitting out criticism and questions. It makes him want him more. Want to unearth every last brilliant little discovery peeking beneath the surface. Bane ruts up against him, all but grinding against his hip as he works away at the detective's resolve with quick strokes. John squirms beneath him, curling his legs as best he can to gently squeeze Bane's cock between his thighs._

_The long years hadn't numbed Bane's sex drive. He was robust in more ways than one, already leaking all over John's stomach and feeling the telltale kiss of fire deep in his own. Fingers wrap around his aching cock and he leans his weight on both hands, leaning forward and thrusting with wild abandon. Sometimes John kisses him between breaths. Gasping touches along the bruised lines he already left on his throat._

__

John shifts in his arms and sighs out a hot breath into the crook of his elbow. Bane leans onto his side and studies him, documenting each purpling mark like a trail on a map. Eventually moves to his chin, the even fainter cuts along his lower lip. The one he was always worrying at with his teeth. He was finding himself more engrossed in the man's little habits. Such as the way he scrubbed at his hair when struggling with a conflicting thought or curled his fingers around an imaginary cigarette. He could have to discourage him out of that latter one. Their walk in the mountains made it clear it was doing him few favors.

__

Talia's tainted dreams and Gotham's uncertain future remain muffled behind an easy glass. He presses the front of his mask into the dip between neck and shoulder, losing himself in the pleasant curve of John's body. It was the first in many days Bane was able to press these painful thoughts away. He wonders how good the detective would be for him over the coming weeks.

__

_A breathless moan transforms into the whimpering keen of someone close to the edge and struggling not to topple over. He tries to hold his wrist firm when he reaches for him again. Pushes his hand further down._

__

_"Want you..."_

__

_He doesn't need to finish. Bane is already urging him open, using the slick on his fingers as impromptu lube, eager to relive those incredible sounds the man makes at his peak pleasure. It's still a little too rough, inciting a sharp hiss, but the hand digging into his shoulder assures him of a different story. Even his self-control is staggered at the sight of the detective pressing his cheek into the thin blanket and rolling his hips in tune to each stroke. His heaving sighs that dissolve into thin whines when Bane goes from petting to grinding, digging the balls of his fingers into the soft tissue and making the man's body seize._

__

_"Bag. Lube. Left." John holds the dark in his eyes and beckons him to oblivion. "H-Hurry."_

__

_Bane is compelled to follow._

__

It was strange having someone in his life who was neither follower nor leader. A person floating in limbo inside a part he long since thought walled off and eroded from disuse. He'd asked the man what humanity meant to him earlier, only to be struck with a question that still left him reeling hours later. Talia had liberated him from the pit. Here John Blake was, attempting to liberate him from Talia.

__

More familiar irritation rises to the surface, but like everything else dulled by the quiet it doesn't take hold. Not yet. He had tenuous pull over the man. A somewhat tenuous understanding. This was made clear from the moment he first awoke in the third cell in the sewer drains coated in bruises and sewer water and still willing to argue in the face of death. Perhaps this was why they would butt heads as easily as they would be drawn back into one another -- they were a dizzying dance of impulsivity and control, pessimism's optimism and optimism's pessimism, frequently exhausted and ever yearning for more.

__

Perhaps he was being sentimental, yes, but the dark demands his honesty.

__

_He doesn't want to lay on his stomach or on his side. Insists on facing him, kissing him, a cluster of physical energy that leaves Bane somewhere, distantly, unbalanced._

__

_Fear has always been his pet project. Wherever the uncertainty stems from his mind goes through the automatic process of contemplating, disassembling and challenging. The answer he digs up is less thorough. It resides somewhere between the way the detective carefully avoids the knotted scar on his neck when he wraps an arm around his shoulders and the way he mumbles his name against his cheek._

__

_Bane presses his shoulders against the back of John's knees, hooking his lean legs across his back and nudging a path inside him. He's slow, mindful of his girth, but the detective will have none of it, urging him with sharp bites and softer words. He welcomes Bane's bruising grip. Trades the pain with his own. His canine catches on the skin and, though he can hardly feel it, Bane knows there will be a lasting mark. He's already left so many and there were only more to come._

__

_The masked man likes how he can almost cradle John to his chest in this position, even as the addicting, tight heat reduces him to pounding with the fervor of an animal. Temporarily he throws constraint to the dogs and filters down his entire world to adjectives. John is bliss. John is agony. John is..._

__

He can feel himself stiffening. Bane pushes the thoughts away for later, ignoring the selfish urge to curl against John and urge him awake again. Delicately rising from the cot he stretches the ache from his back before walking across the tent and pulling out one of his coats. He moves two fingers through a hole on the sleeve -- a rather poor shot by one of the Gotham City police department's finest had left it the previous day. It wouldn't do to leave it. Pulling out a needle and thread he sits on the stool and gets to work.

__

He mulls over his aggravation yesterday. When he returned fresh from battle and saw Barsad with John Blake in tow, despite knowing better than anyone else under his command how little he thought of tardiness. It wasn't quite disobeying, not when Bane hadn't told him what to do otherwise, but it skirted the edges of respect. It's here in his proverbial breath away from Gotham does he acknowledge the interesting effect John Blake had on his men. He was still not sure how much he liked it. One lingering glance at the man's sleeping face, mouth slightly open against his hand, and he accepts it wasn't truly so bad.

__

Barsad had mentioned, all the way back in the sewers during a workout routine, how many wanted to see his happiness. It wasn't an entirely unknown concept to him. His men had always been eager to satisfy him, despite many of them coming from origins scarred by the greedy hand of authority. How genuinely they wanted it, though...it wasn't something he would engage with. Not when he had to keep professional distance, as much as he cared for their future and the individual dreams they brought to the reformed League's table. Nearly three hundred men. They faced each day with the knowledge it could be their last, be it through Gotham's doing...or his own. It would do to keep his relationship with John Blake a secret, with Barsad the exception, lest they start attempting to parse his private life with good and misplaced intentions.

__

Each stitch he leaves behind holds her echo. A whisper that's been beckoning him ever since he put his daughter in a cell and hid the key.

__

_"Much better. We'll make a seamstress of you yet."_

__

_Behnam looks up from his work. Her normally smooth humor is frayed. He peers through the dark. Perhaps she doesn't understand yet how easy she is for him to read now. Perhaps she doesn't care. She proceeds with her pattern even as a grimace begins to pull down her mouth, some deeper pain fighting to make itself known._

__

_"Lael." He starts, even as he's not sure how he's going to follow through. The elusive nature of socializing still remains just out of his grasp. She shakes her head and waves a hand for him to continue. He refuses. Lays the creation in his lap, a half-stitched blanket for Talia created from yarn thrown down by the guards, and waits. She almost laughs and twists her fingers around her necklace._

__

_"More stubborn than brick, Behnam."_

__

_A distant clatter has her jerking to attention. Something has affected the other prisoners' attention. He turns and sees glittering eyes turned on their cell, some strange and others known. Without another word he shifts out of his corner, shifts until his back is to the light and he's blocking their view. He picks up his needles again. They continue in silence for some time. The only change from the click-clack of wood and their matching breaths is her hand moving to rest on his knee. Eternal gratitude summarized in one fleeting touch._

__

He shakes himself as if covered in water. The reverie vanishes, but leaves behind it an unwelcome tang of nostalgia. Would Lael approve of who he became now? Of what he's done? Whether or not she would isn't a question that matters. Not anymore. Old ghosts should rest and hers deserved it most.

__

Then the detective wakes. One moment he's still, the very image of peace, the next he's floundering at the blankets and attempting to yank away from something unseen. Bane immediately crosses the small gap and holds onto him so he doesn't fall off the cot, though this only seems to agitate him further.

__

"John." He whispers. "Wake up."

__

"I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_ , I never _told_ yo-"

__

" _John_."

__

He doesn't pin him down or push down his flailing arms -- it would only aggravate him further -- and instead takes his face in both hands. Repeats his name. Shakes him, just a little. Something that would seem out-of-place, even in the throes of a dream. It has the desired effect. The detective sits up so swiftly he nearly headbutts him, grappling at his wrists and looking about wildly. A few trembling moments of silence, then whatever wild strength he had leaves him and he slumps back into the blankets bonelessly.

__

"...Damn it."

__

Bane watches him roll over onto his side, back facing him, gripping his hair in one hand as if to pull it off. The man had wanted comfort, all the way back in the mountain, but something in the twitching of his shoulders tells him he needs space now. He turns from the cot and hunkers down on the stool again. The rain has stopped, though he knows it will be back before long.

__

"Can't sleep even when I'm tired." Slowly but surely John's breath becomes more steady. "The _hell_ kind of sense does that make."

__

"Some sleep is better than none." Bane offers reasonably. The cot creaks and he can feel the detective's eyes on him.

__

"What are you doing?"

__

"Sewing."

__

"Naked? In the _dark?_ "

__

"Last I checked."

__

"...Why?"

__

"There was a hole."

__

A long pause. "So what's _your_ excuse, big guy?" For a moment the question loses him. Then it clicks.

__

"The silence is deafening." Bane responds, earning a sharp chuckle. It's a much more welcome sound than the ragged noises he was making just minutes prior.

__

"Yeah, Gotham's pretty loud. Honking cars and people screaming, 'Jackass!' out their window is our lullaby."

__

Bane grunts his assent, his calloused fingers too insensitive to lead and instead letting the dip of cloth along his leg help create the stitch. Perhaps he would pick up his yarn after this, if sleep still evaded him. It was a more complex embroidering he discovered years ago, something he learned while he was still under Ra's tutelage but was starting to travel with the aid of his new mask. He often preferred it in the deep hours of the night when his brain needed both discipline and monotony to keep from wandering into despondent territory. Then again...perhaps not. Talia had added to it during their last meeting.

__

Another _creak_. "Do you get nightmares often, Bane?"

__

He doesn't miss the phrasing. John knows someone like him could never avoid them, truly. "...Yes." He worries at a potential knot for a moment, then continues. "Not often, but yes." The man doesn't press, surprisingly, but the air is thick with unasked questions. "What did you dream about just now?"

__

"I'd...rather not talk about it." He catches himself. "I mean, I know I should. I will. Just hurts...right now." A heavy sigh, then he can hear the man shifting around again. Restless. "Though, I think I know why I keep flashing back now. Why the city hall has me so messed up." 

__

Bane turns around. He's sitting up now, legs curled to his chest to rest his chin on one knee. The dim gray of his outline in the black hearkens to Gotham's old statues, permanently somber and worn by weather and harsh hand. A spike of protectiveness pulls through his chest at the sight.

__

"You saved me. All those other times I was in danger I managed. No matter how beat up or sick I got, I managed." Dark humor enters his voice. "Even by _you_. But at the city hall I felt completely powerless. It was...shit, it was terrifying. One of the scariest things I've ever been through. When the ceiling started to cave in I seriously didn't see any way out. No amount of thinking or running was going to get me out of it. When you protected me, I..." He glances sideways at him, then chews on his lip. "Damn, this sounds ungrateful."

__

"Contemplative, from where I'm sitting." He offers. "Continue."

__

The man navigates his shame like a minefield, all hesitant words and second-guessing. "I thought maybe the toxin or... _whatever_ was in the air had something to do with me feeling so out of wack. Well, maybe it does a little. But that's not all at play. Not by a long shot." He scratches his hair and blows out a sigh against his knee. "My mind went full auto-pilot and decided to interpret your good deed as a weakness on my part."

__

What the man doesn't know is how deeply familiar Bane is of this very thing.

__

"Impressive progress. You parsed out what many would struggle with for months. Perhaps years."

__

"What can I say. Denial doesn't fit me so well anymore."

__

"It would be wise to consider your other theories, however. Scarecrow's work was known to deeply tamper with its victims." Bane adds. "Once the short-term effects wore off a troubling aftershock would linger. Hallucinations so pervasive they blended imperceptibly with reality. Severe insomnia. Night tremors." He closes a stitch and continues another. "Many claimed visions of other realities. Better ones. Worse ones. All arresting regardless, it seemed, as vivid as if they were telling the truth. A few even ended their lives when they could no longer suffer the disparity."

__

"How...do you know that?" He asks, voice faint with horror.

__

"The League has always kept detailed records." He looks at him again. "...Of everything." The hard resolution in John's eyes reminds Bane, again, why he's here in the first place.

__

"You said the League Of Shadows isn't around anymore. I mean, the old one. Was Barsad from there, too?"

__

Bane raises his eyebrows at the sudden change in topic. "No. He was recruited years later."

__

"Are any of your men from the first?"

__

"There had been a few. I had been conservative in my recruitment efforts since many were...unsettled by the change in leadership."

__

"Who else trained at the League?"

__

Bruce Wayne. The name that hovers like an unwanted guest in the dark, warm tent. He doesn't need to utter it, nor does John.

__

Nearly three months of Bruce's absence and the man would never be anything other than a brutal itch up his spine. Then again, it was an unfair battle stacked against over eight years of slow, pondering loathing. Bane has to restrict the will to intimidate another topic change, an internal admonishment that he's careful not to show on his face, and focuses his energy instead on the soft thread twisted around his index and thumb. He didn't bring John here to cow him into submission. He needed to remember that, because the man is watching him a touch more cautiously than he was before.

__

"For someone you drove out through your, uh, superior intellect and foresight..." His voice is low. "...you sure get angry whenever he's brought up." Bane's not quite sure if he wants to chase the man's tone and pull it up by the tail, the curiosity suspended between his old grudge and rapidly dissipating mood.

__

"How did you first meet him...?" He lets out a scoff. "What the hell happened between you two?"

__

"I won't insult your intelligence by denying it...but how did you find out?"

__

"Your fighting styles are similar." The detective quirks his mouth humorlessly. "And you _really_ don't think very much of him."

__

Damned detective, canny to a fault. Even doubting and staggered he is already back to pressing at him. Poking at him. Not to move him, but to provoke him, he imagines. Confirm what he already suspect he knows. Did he view him as some mystery to be solved? It's becoming more difficult to withhold his temper. He had attempted to circumvent these thoughts and was now in the thick of them once more. John shifts from where he's sitting, now leaning back on his hands and letting his long legs drape along the floor. Even through the bright flare of anger a trickle of fondness bleeds through.

__

What happened between them? Only what could when two opposites collided, two similarities struggling for independence, a veritable twister as inexorable as it was destructive. Bruce Wayne was a trespasser in a hall of gods. A scourge _and_ a gift. Even when he cracked his back over one knee and tossed him into his own personal hell he remained a glare on his mind, burning away his composure in every idle moment and threatening to leave him a raw, exposed wound. Bane had never known true peace, nor would he expect to, but he'd made a grave mistake all those months back. The mistake of believing that proving to the man his inferiority and leaving him to suffer would help him move on.

__

Bane would never admit to envy. The poisonous jealousy he still felt more than eight years later over Bruce Wayne's near-inhuman ability to influence and inspire, no matter where or _who_ he was. John clucks his tongue impatiently and lays back on the cot with a faint _squeak_.

__

" _Please_ don't tell me it's a long story. I gathered that."

__

"Then I will give you a frank one." The stitch is complete now, but brutal energy is starting to make him twitch. He focuses it by folding the jacket. "He was a student of Ra's Al Ghul many years ago. The man would sometimes go by the alias Henri Ducard, when secrecy was more powerful than legacy. Bruce Wayne devoted his mind and body to the League's teaching at great personal risk to his health and reputation. While many of Batman's more... _iconic_ traits come from his intergenerational wealth, his martial arts training has always belonged to the League."

__

John is watching him intently. "And you studied alongside him?"

__

"For a time. We were later separated when we failed to promote...synergy." His tone brooks no further details on the matter. With John Blake, though, it was likely only a matter of time before he pressed there, too.

__

"What did you both learn under Ra's?"

__

"Ninjutsu. Krav maga. Fencing." The last one has John quirking his head not unlike a confused hound. The detective _would_ find it odd. Gotham was a technological marvel, but one that eagerly squandered its roots in favor of an omnipresent lust for the future. Gothamites may be hardy, and hopeful in their own way, but for all they were ever connected through technology they were remarkably closed off from the rest of the world. Bane favored a balance in-between and it was one of many gifts he hoped to leave the city once he was through.

__

"I'll have to see you wield a sword someday." He says with a short laugh, still sounding a little disbelieving. Bane chuckles himself.

__

"Be careful what you wish for."

__

John leans forward a little. "What else?" He sees glimmers of the detective's old fervor. An almost child-like curiosity that sets a spark in his eyes and threatens to light a blazing fire. Even now, Batman's image was akin to a folktale whose lifespan was strengthened by the hopes and dreams of others'. It sours his better mood and these constant questions ensure it will be an uphill battle yet.

__

"More subtle arts. Poisons. Traps. The study of what dead languages and cultures still had to offer. Knowledge is power and the League never settled for anything less."

__

"Huh." He considers this. "...What was he like back then?"

__

"An eager student...and an arrogant man. Even as he lapped up Ra's' tutelage he was ever convinced he knew better." What he _doesn't_ say is that Ra's never actually minded. He had embraced what he called Bruce's 'puzzling' technique, his crafty mind and lofty ambitions...yet had lambasted Bane from the start. "Despite laying waste to the challenge of centuries-old teachings he eventually denounced Ra's an extremist and defected from the order. Even so, their respect for one another ran deeper than almost all else." He finally sets the jacket aside. "I imagine Bruce felt that way, still, when he killed him."

__

He can almost hear John's thoughts screech to a halt.

__

"...Batman doesn't kill."

__

Bane snorts softly.

__

"Such impressive faith. You would put a priest to shame."

__

John's troubled silence is satisfying, but only just. Calm was destined to remain a fleeting blessing, it seems. When the conversation doesn't pick up again he stands and makes his way to the cot, careful to maintain a few inches of distance as he assesses the detective's mood. His body is already soaking pleasantly in the heat lingering on the sheets.

__

"What will you do when Gotham changes?" He asks, staring up at the tent top. Bane is weary of talking now and he keeps the edge from his voice with some effort.

__

"A lesser concern for now."

__

"But _what?_ "

__

"John Robin Blake, you peck like a hen." He adjusts his mask, minutely, and wills his body to relax. "The night is short. You should rest while you can."

__

John rolls over onto his side, quiet again, and regret threatens to make Bane soft. The rain picks up mere minutes later, thick and heavy, and the tent soon swaths them both in a cocoon of sound. He debates his feelings as he makes himself comfortable on the stiff cot. Contemplates them. Eventually surrenders, even as his ego rings with offense.

__

"You're a menace." John murmurs when Bane wraps an arm around his waist and tugs him closer.

__

"I am aware."

__

Bane doesn't miss the way his shoulders relax when he strokes his stomach. John inches back carefully at his bidding, shifting until his spine is flush with his chest and his feet curled between his thighs. That spike of emotion runs through him again, slow and burning and growing hotter with every drugged thump of his heart. His hand trails where an artist's touch graced his hip, wanders along the man's firm stomach, explores his chest and remains when John holds it there.

__

"And I'm going to get to the bottom of you." He laces his fingers in his. It's a strange sensation and one Bane isn't sure how to return. "...You know that, right?"

__

Bane nestles the front of his mask in the crook of his neck and shoulder, ignoring the tickle of his hair against his cheek. The calm is sinking into his bones again and he welcomes it with open arms. So much so he's almost asleep before he remembers to answer.

__

"I would be disappointed if you didn't."

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I like to add in fanfiction (or, heck, writing in general) is to sprinkle in references. They can be to the series' lore, mainstream media, history, sometimes the actors' or directors' past work. I always keep these fun little touches in mind when reading, myself, and I like to think of ways to sneak in subtle nods without being too obvious.
> 
> Let me know if you catch any of them!


	33. Bitter Taste

Bane visits her for the first time since he locked her away.

The days have been long and uneventful, even though her cell has been more furbished and well-kept than would be seen as appropriate for a prisoner. She has regular access to the news as well as her books and writing supplies. The men sent to guard her have only continued to treat her with the utmost respect, eager to provide her any requests large or small with a few obvious exceptions. Her food is plentiful and she is allowed to linger in the shower as long as she pleases. It would almost be enough to curb the betrayal that has sat in her chest and festered like an untreated wound.

She had asked her guards for information a few days after she first woke up from a drugged sleep. About how things have changed since she was away. What she's missed. While she didn't recognize either mercenary, being more removed from them than Bane due to her position, they knew of her. Knew how close they were. It wasn't hard pulling information out of them like a loose thread with soft questions and painful looks. While the woman guard had been more reserved, almost monosyllabic, the other had crumbled under her onslaught. It was almost too easy to read his thoughts behind every flick of his eyes. Does he risk Bane's anger or hers? Were they even inseparable? Why was his daughter being kept under lock and key? It seemed Bane only shared so much.

So she learned.

While even her skill in manipulation couldn't glean information on whether or not Bane had gotten his hands on the reactor she convinced Rubio to steal all those weeks back, she found out other things. Bane was still recruiting. A former prisoner got a lot of attention. Someone who had, according to the guard, been rightfully converted to their cause and showed a lot of potential. Pavel was still alive and in his care. She also learned that there was a massive protest planned for the downtown square. Some nicknamed it 'the reckoning'. She considers these tidbits of information as she brushes her hair and changes her clothes just before Bane's arrival.

The way he crouches in front of her in the room, attempts to catch her gaze without so much as touching her, brings back memories so old she thought she'd truly forgotten. When she considers how she got here, it's more than a little likely she had.

"How have you been, Talia?" He asks softly. "I assume they have treated you well."

_She didn't remember how to be fragile. She had to learn again for Bane._

_He was used to enemies. What he wasn't used to was the freedom in dealing with them. The guards above home (which she later learned was called the 'Lazarus Pit', a strangely noble name she immediately rejected) had sometimes stopped fights before they became too brutal, punishing prisoners with withheld food and occasionally the ends of their rifles. Other times they would encourage the bloodshed from the start. Tossing scraps and items from the top to watch the wretched and the dying fight over them until their last breath. One of her earliest memories was watching Bane through the bars as he pulled out a man's throat over a book._

_Bane had always been the strongest. The wisest. The only ones who would fight him were either too crazy to know better or brand-new and woefully unaware of his reputation. Everything was different now in the League Of Shadows. Everyone here knew about the both of them. Now he had new limits. Smaller and larger ones. Unknown ones. It was a dizzying mix and one both of them still weren't quite used to._

_The teacher's bones had snapped like dry twigs. The older man had stopped Talia from climbing onto one of the bells earlier that morning, when the fog surrounding the mountains was so thick she could reach out and grab it. It was a beautiful creation, twisting snakes and wilting flowers lovingly recreated in iron to be hung from a giant stone hand. She had stared at it when she arrived for the very first time, still learning the meaning of art and what it offered her stunted world, and had made it her own personal mission to climb inside and see what other secrets it held. Fury reddening his wrinkled face, he had slapped her bottom before her feet even reached the floor._

_"This is not for you to touch. Ever." She remembered him. He was sometimes hovering over Ra's shoulder. "Foolish little girl." Someone important or someone who felt important enough to discipline her without Ra's' say so. She had squalled then not from pain, but pure, unfiltered indignation. That this mostly stranger saw fit to treat her in such a way. Her voice carried through the cavernous hallways, as piercing as a jackal's cry, and it hadn't been long before Bane heard._

_"Silence." He had hissed. "There are rules here. Rules that have been in place for hundreds of years. I would sooner see this place razed to the ground than bear witness to such blat-"_

_As if suspended from a rope he had lifted suddenly from the ground, Bane's thick arms wrapped around his neck and squeezing._

_It was nothing she hadn't seen before. Talia watched as his collarbone caved, then cracked, any agony that could rip through his throat lacking the breath to make the journey. He would have died, then, if others hadn't surrounded them and demanded he stop under threat of death. Bane hadn't moved an inch when they held rifles and knives just inches from his head. He didn't fear death. He didn't fear much at all and had only dropped the man from his grip when Talia put a hand on his knee. Not out of pity for the teacher, no. To remind them of her power as well as his._

_Bane was used to enemies. Once she pulled him out of the pit the primary rules he had to follow were those of his body, the leftover scars from cruel hands and an indifferent plague that dictated how much he could move at any given time. The deeper crevasses in his mind that showed themselves brutally, at times, such as when he nudged the limp man away from him with a careless foot and knelt to her eye level to check for bruises. The normally fluid words that grew mangled in his throat when the others attempted to draw near, something between a warning and a snarl._

_What they didn't know was that she had to protect him, too._

"Talia." Bane leans forward a little. "Talk to me."

She looks him up and down. He's wearing his old shearling coat over his fatigues, boots shimmering a little from the rain that must be pouring outside. It was a rather old thing, the results of a personal project he sank himself into during a lengthy trip across the Bhutanese mountains many years ago. It had been his first leadership role since being admitted into the League and Talia's first trip outside of the monastery. He took it deathly seriously. She had been in a poor mood the first few days as he spent more time among the assassins than she, though he later apologized to her and took her on a long walk through the snow-topped hills. Worn and battlescarred, it only grew stronger under the constant wear and tear of battle. Not unlike its wearer.

Slowly her eyes meet his. The pain there is different. More fresh. Whatever guilt she could feel at this point is a dull and neglected thing, far out of her reach and clamoring for her attention as she breaks his gaze and stares again at the wall.

"There is not much to say."

"I would hear anything."

_"Either you chain him up or I will._

_Ra's anger wasn't like anything she had seen before. The men in the pit had been all teeth and bare threats, lashing at one another when they weren't conniving in their crude holes. His was measured. Controlled. A tranquil rage that could just as soon be confused for mild displeasure to anyone more foolish than her._

_"He hit me." She mutters, kicking at a crack in the floor. Ra's tone remains the same, speaking to her like he would anyone else brought to his private abode. She preferred it, really. "Bane thought I was in danger and that made him angry."_

_"Yes. A lot seems to make your friend angry. Even when we were the ones who kept you safe in the first place." He lets out a sigh through his nose and stares her down. Even she has a hard time looking into those icy eyes and she looks back at the floor, scuffing it with her shoe as if to dig herself a new pit. "Do you know what we do to animals who bite the hand that feeds them?" She shakes her head. "We either muzzle them..." That same indignation rises up again like bile when he finishes, "...or put them down."_

_"He's not an animal."_

_"The shattered collarbone and throat of my employ would beg to differ."_

_She balls her hands into helpless fists and swallows back wild, angry words. He rubs his eyes as if tired of it all and pushes away from the desk. "This may be your home, but I won't have you disrespecting its landmarks or its people. The sooner you learn restraint, Talia, the better." He turns around. "...the same goes for Bane."_

_The rest of the day had been like the ones that came before. She was starting to learn a new routine, though it would be many more days until they won the fight against the Pit. She suffers through hours of chores -- dusting the rafters, washing the floors and carrying clothes back and forth between what seemed like endless rooms. She enjoyed more the history lessons provided by the old, grizzled teacher who never seemed to leave their study. There was even a bed tucked behind the main bookcase. She wondered if it was something like the Pit._

_There she would learn about a world far bigger than she could have ever imagined. She loved most the tales of distant cities, though they were by far her teacher's least favorite element. The photos of massive, twinkling towers surrounded by beams of light had captured her imagination. She would even consider them fantasy if she hadn't been assured they were not just real, but a place she could go to someday when she was older._

_Bane was kept far away from her for most of the day. The only glimpses she would catch of him in the morning were in-between chores when she would sneak by his training room and wave hello before she was caught. By the time he would return to their quarters come evening he was quiet and tired, exhaustion clear in the slump of his shoulders and twitch of his damaged spine. They would sometimes give him something for the pain, a mixture she didn't fully understand that would slur his speech and glaze his eyes, and other times they would withhold it._

_"Ra's was mad about what you did." She kicks her feet idly as the man pulls her into his lap and starts to work at her hair. "He says if someone does something you don't like you have to tell him."_

_No longer bare fuzz, her growing locks were now long enough to be wound into a tiny braid behind her neck. She wasn't sure how long she wanted it to be and was simply content to bare witness to all the different ways her body was changing outside the confines of the pit. Bane doesn't respond, but he doesn't need to. They had mastered the art of silent communication long ago and she can feel disagreement wafting off him like a bad omen._

_Ra's always had a new, unflattering comparison for him, yet this one was more difficult to repeat. She just catches Bane's eyes darkening murderously in the reflection of the vase in the corner of their room before he reaches down for something to tie the tail together. There were no secrets between them, except for the ones they kept jealously between themselves, though she now starts to wonder if Ra's had a point concerning restraint. She doesn't like how withdrawn Bane becomes afterwards and how his gaze keeps wandering away from her the rest of the night._

_They eat their evening meal in silence together, still preferring their own company to the crowded dining hall below. Ra's had originally been adamant she attend, but hadn't contended with her stubbornness. So she would run all the way down and collect both of their meals, careful not to spill the thick stew as she made her way up the stairs and to the loft. Bane wolfs his food down, as best as he can with his ruined mouth, and curls into himself when the pain is too much to bear afterwards._

"They have treated me well." She begins, neutrally. Her brush lays unattended in her lap. "Though I would still see more women under your leadership."

There's a touch of affectionate relief in Bane's smile.

"Indeed. I am working on this. Many of the able-bodied I have recruited have, unfortunately, been men. Too many women were with families they would not abandon...or justified distrust toward my person." Almost like it used to be. Except it was not. It's apparent when she sinks back into silence and he stares at her, expectantly, sadly. She wants to tell him to leave. The words can't leave her throat.

_Routine is stability. Routine is pain. Bane hates it here more than she does and it's not fair._

_Only when she completely finishes her meal (at his stern behest) does he allow her to clamber onto his back to tend to him. His spine still hadn't healed from what they did to him after her escape. It still hurt to witness, much less to feel, and she has to resist the urge to close her eyes as she works at the muscles around his shoulder blades. Attempting as best she can with her rough grip to ease the pain when the drug was no longer allowed. It was to become addicted to, one of the League members had said, if taken over the course of many days._

_It didn't stop her from sneaking vials from the storage room._

_"Talia." He croaks, trying to ease onto his elbows as she tugs apart a loose stone in the floorboard and pulls out a small glass bottle. "You know better." It had been a more difficult task than she was used to remaining hidden and using the light from a candle to illuminate each vial in turn, but patience had always been one of her better qualities. Soon she had the sleeping draft sometimes given the sick and injured, just in time to sneak out before the doctors came back inside. There were no other children at the League. They were ever unprepared for her._

_Bane resists at first, brows furrowed, but any frustration he feels is soon swallowed up by pain. She tips it against his torn lips, pulls back when he shakes too much, tries again. It takes longer to give him the proper dosage. Not so long for his body to relax. His eyelids lower slowly and his breathing becomes less hitched. His hand moves to hers in an attempt to hold. She takes his fingers and squeezes them._

_"...Stubborn girl."_

_They would whisper where he couldn't hear, laugh when he couldn't see, all at the expense of this hulking, damaged man at the whim of a child. It was satisfying to see Bane put them in their place, whether with a few barbed words or through the brutal honesty of violence. She found herself preferring the latter, as the former was something she could do rather well herself._

_Bane was given impossible standards, even compared to Ra's' already astronomically lofty visions for the future. The leader of the League didn't fully understand yet that he thrived on the impossible. Surviving the pit's plague. Surviving the abuse of prisoners and guards alike. Surviving himself. He even extended that impossibility to a little girl, when anyone else would have hurt her, killed her or even eaten her._

_How Ra's hated him._

She's not the only one that has sunk into the stupor of memory. His gaze is just a little distant. Perhaps looking for the girl he raised.

"It doesn't have to be this way, Talia. Shed this madness." His voices lowers, almost a whisper, and she has to swallow back the instinct to reach out to him. "This future also belongs to you. Please share it with me."

That's what he gave her. A future. Something he was convinced was forever restricted to a hellish prison in a forgotten part of the world. How could he realize that's exactly what she wanted to give others? A future free of corruption and chaos. Free of a cursed city. No, _the_ cursed city. A place so thoroughly wretched it spat out more death than it ever did life. Bane's pet project had made him soft. He was different, somehow, and she didn't like how hard it was for her to put her finger on why.

"A future with Gotham is no future at all." She responds. Bane shakes his head slowly.

"Do you truly believe that?" He asks. "You have spent a lot of time among the elite, Talia. It can be difficult to see the good when you are neck-deep in ego." He folds his hands. "Even as I dance among death I have seen firsthand what Gotham has to offer. Good people. Children still being shaped in the image of others. It hasn't been an easy road, but nothing worth fighting for ever came so. ...Do you not imagine how many others like us there are?"

"There is nobody like us."

"I beg to differ."

All she can do is scoff. She'd hoped he would see eye-to-eye with her over time. Being immersed in the city that spawned one of his most hated enemies had once been considered a foolproof plan...and why not? Batman had left an indelible mark on them both, one the rich fool was likely unaware of, and when Bane had disposed of him Talia was sure there would be nothing else standing in the way between her and destiny. Instead that seed of hope, something she once found inspiring, had dug in its roots with a ferocity that matched her own.

He stands up with a grunt and crosses the small gap over to her. Towering over her much like he did when she was ten, then fifteen, then twenty. Reaches out to help her up. He holds the years in his hand. She gazes up at him and a part of her admits, somewhere deep down, that she wants nothing more than to return to where she always used to be.

Her Bane. Her protector. A better father than Ra's ever was. This cold city didn't deserve him.

She takes his hand, as carefully as if it were a stranger's, and feels as if she could be pulled part by messy part by the tender way he pets her knuckles.

Then her blood runs cold at the sight of his neck.

Bruises. As faint as a dream, peppered near his throat and under his jaw. There's no question where they could come from and yet, somehow, something about this bothers her in a way it hasn't before. She knew the man would sleep with others from time to time. This knowledge had never been kept from her. The icy clutch of jealousy curves around her heart. Winds of change and half-truths whirl together in her mind, the result as blurry and damning as a twister.

"Who else do you share Gotham with?" She yanks away. "Who have you _replaced_ me with?" He pulls back and stares down at her in horror. The same silence that worried her before comes back in full force. He doesn't say anything and, in not doing so, answers her every question. One of the guards shifts, as imperceptible as the touch of a fly on a wall, but she can feel the guilt from where she sits.

She's silent when Bane attempts to clarify. Says nothing through his pleas for her to see reason. Even pulls away when he finally does touch her, a fleeting palm on her shoulder that burns like a hot poker. It's not long before he sends a curt order down the hallway and makes his way to the bars. He hesitates in the doorway...then whirls around and slams his fist into the far wall. The room quivers from the shock. One of the guards peers in, only to quickly back out at the sight.

She doesn't make a sound, leaving him to make his departure with the crackle of the ruined wall in his stead.

\--

He's alive.

It's been hours after the fact and he's not sure if he's actually found his meandering way back to the hideout or he's suffering a particularly cruel fever dream. Only through shaking himself and pinching his arm is he convinced his luck is genuine and perhaps divinely given. The sky is choking with gray and Gotham's buildings tower in a mockery of mountains in the distance, but it was a good day, indeed.

"I need to speak to Rubio immediately." He says when he arrives, voice coarse from constant running and little water. "No, I'm fine. It's minor. Just find Rubio."

It had been a gamble considering his bargaining options as he crept from island to island and snuck his away past Gotham's borders. Unlike Bane, Rubio was unlikely to kill him for cowardice. What he did wasn't even cowardice, not truly. Attempting to fight Bane _and_ Barsad would have been nothing short of suicidal. His own fighting skills, while not negligible, had always taken a back seat to translation work. At least alive he could still collect himself. Learn anew. Fight again.

Rubio, though. Rubio wanted every card in his deck. This rare chance could have a fine consequence for him in the New League. Perhaps he would be promoted, though he would sooner have more compensation than a different field altogether. An ugly thought tickles the back of his mind as he repeats the password, one he pushes away in light of his relief once he's finally let in. These guards are new and don't recognize him. Perhaps one of the downsides of the change in leadership. Quantity over quality.

"You're late." Rubio says when he makes his way through the small camp, hunched over a meal among a few others. The smell of chicken and something more spicy makes his empty stomach growl plaintively. "Where is Shad?" There are even more he doesn't recognize. The mercenary was recruiting so fast a mere few days' absence had him feeling as if _he_ was the one out of place. It was enough to make him doubt the man's intentions of creating a _truly_ comparable army, but it wasn't his place to publicly disagree. Yet.

"He's...captured."

Everything grows quiet. Rubio tosses a bone into the fire and wipes grease from his mouth.

"By whom?"

Abdul has his speech ready, even conspicuously leaving a little blood on his clothes for emphasis (though his crooked nose and missing front tooth would likely be proof enough). He tells him of the ambush, the interrogation and his narrow escape. How what was meant to be a simple patrol took a turn for the worse when Bane and his second-in-command showed up out of nowhere to accost him. How quickly he traveled to warn them. The new recruits are glancing at one another in a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Some of them had never met Bane and only heard of him through the man's former mercenaries or what news stations wished to show.

"I told him the most convincing lies I could muster." He lies, allowing himself a moment's pause as the others set aside their food or lean in to listen. Even the guards are risking looks over their shoulders now. "Shad and I had taken every precaution, but something must have led them to our outcrop. It was likely Barsad's doing. He used to man communications before he was promoted. If it hadn't been for my partner I wouldn't have received the distraction I needed to escape." It might be laying it on a little thick, as he only knew the man superficially, but it seems to have the effect he wants.

The man reaches over and pats his shoulder with a grim smile. "That couldn't have been easy. The great masked man is not known for letting his enemies slip through his fingers." There it is. That uncomfortable feeling again. He tries to smile, even as it stretches strangely on his face and likely comes off as insincere. Perhaps it could be read as exhausted or shaken. A better interpretation.

"We will have a moment of silence for Shad. He was one of the first to back me and the cause." Rubio says to others. Abdul frowns.

"He's still alive. They had only stunned him."

"For how long, do you think?" The mercenary responds with a snort. "Bane has killed his own men just to prove a point. Loyal followers who had already pledged to fight to the bitter end in the name of the... _reformed_ League Of Shadows. Do you think someone who actively turned against him would stand a further chance?" Abdul shakes his head, a miserable agreement, and Rubio gives him a friendly shake.

"See? This is what Bane wants. Your _awe_ and wonder." Even with just over a dozen at their attention, the quiet fanaticism is clear for anyone to see. It was something Abdul acknowledged, even on his own journey to what he deserved. "A successful tyrant he is, but one that crumbles without his greatest weapon. Don't let him wield it. Don't even let me or Talia wield it."

The rousing cry that follows is almost enough to drown out his finishing words. "When Gotham is ours, the only masters we'll have are _ourselves!_ "

Damn it all. All that planning on the way and he hadn't even considered Talia al Ghul. They haven't been able to reach her for many days, enough to strain the dynamics of their still-fresh group, and he had been so concerned about pleasing Rubio with mostly-truths he neglected what she would think when she returned. She was Bane's other half. There was no doubt in his mind she was just as brutal and unforgiving.

Then Rubio's hand reaches around and tugs at something at the nape of his neck, just where the hair is starting to grow. Whatever it is, it clings to the skin like a tick. He stares in horror as the mercenary holds up something tiny between his fingers.

"As I said...he's not known for letting his enemies escape." His voice darkens. "You led him _right to us._ "

He can hardly hear anything over the sound of his heartbeat pounding terribly in his throat. His mind tries to reason with the deceptive technology that somehow made it onto his person. _How_ had he not felt it? It couldn't be. He hadn't been passed out that long. Maybe Rubio was lying. Trying to set him up. He tries to look closer at it, even as it glitters sincerely in the firelight.

"Please." He manages to whisper before the man pulls out a pistol and levels it with his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been looping 'Notion' by Tash Sultana. Always gets me in the mood to work on this fic.


	34. A Funny Find

Gotham didn't look half bad when it let its hair down.

Sure, broken windows and endless 'street closed' signs weren't exactly the _hottest_ in exterior design, but the benefits of a terrified law enforcement that wouldn't even put out a parking ticket without looking over their shoulder more than made up for it. She didn't miss Daggett. She _really_ didn't miss wherever Commissioner Gordon hid off to. Waller? Heck, a glance at the teles in the square and she was constantly surrounded by a cocoon of bodyguards everywhere she went. Probably watching her when she was eating brunch or taking a shit. It was better than a sitcom.

A solid two and a half months since escaping the ward and she still wasn't _quite_ sure she was in the same city. She couldn't cross every other street without seeing protests cluttered in front of enterprises, mini-movements erupting out of thin air or a cops versus robbers-esque chase winding its way up and down Gotham's broken hills. All right, maybe that latter one was rather common. Still, it was the kind of chaos she thrived in, with the added bonus of it actually _meaning_ something. The righteous fury of so many downtrodden Gothamites was inspiring, all things told, and it was what she had _expected_ to see when she met the man who would change her life forever.

She wished she felt the same wild glee for the rest of the city, though. Where The Bowery was thriving in the new climate, Old Gotham was downright _miserable_. Not only was it being hit particularly hard by this mysterious chemical attack (even East End wasn't having as many 'drug-related episodes', journalism be blessed), the Gotham police department was convinced arresting anyone out after eight was a good idea. Even kids.

Visiting her favorite district had been a rather bumpy trip down nostalgia road. Some of her favorite shops had been closed down in her absence and there were a lot more overturned cars than she remembered seeing. On the other hand, people were sticking up for themselves more than they ever had and there were a _lot_ more overturned cars than she remembered seeing. A cafe she used to frequent back during college was considering shutting down because of a lack of patrons, enough to break even her nasty little heart. She couldn't even stick around beyond tipping the mom and pop who ran the place because of the damn early after-hour law. They didn't remember her anyways, not after so much time, but still. She was going to kick whoever came up with the curfew square in the ass.

First things first.

She buys herself an ice cream cone and downs it as quickly as possible as she cuts a mean path through downtown Gotham. Leaving Tatsu in charge of the Acres crew gives her the peace-of-mind she needs to proceed with the tedious yet fascinating work of people-watching. It had been an interesting morning deciding how much she wanted to blend in or stand out before heading out on her mini-mission. On _one_ hand looking as drab and stuffy as the average Gothamite would net her a few points in the inconspicuous department. On the _other_ hand looking bold could make any potential suspect that looks her way think she's less suspect _and_ more suspect at the exact same time. It was a psychology thing.

So she went for something in-between (a diamond-pattern sweater over black leggings) and, much to her delight and chagrin, nobody seemed to give a damn. Maybe she should've kept the fuzzy dice earrings.

The cold weather keeps her ice cream in place, which is just as well since she ordered the tallest they had. She muses over the useful intel Sherlock had given her on the Scarecrow. While Jonathan Crane _had_ been her wardmate for the better part of three years, the guy had clearly hated the very ground she walked on and only spoke to her when the stick up his ass wasn't good enough company. Not that she minded. She had gotten better conversations out of the teddy bear the nurses let her keep as decoration.

She remembers the man being closest to Cobblepot, sometimes nicknamed The Penguin (and _boy_ , was _that_ an apt name). Occasionally he'd even talk to Nigma, though they couldn't go more than three sentences without dissolving into a psychological dick-jerking session. She wondered where they went after the place was blown up. She'd been far too interested in getting the hell out of there to stick a knife between either of their ribs. Hopefully Crane's natural propensity for blowing people off meant he didn't have extra allies skulking about in the Bowery or the Narrows.

Then again, maybe he did. According to the detective the doctor had been hired by the League Of Shadows eight years ago, which made her laugh for a good full minute until he threatened to hang up. This prestigious boss had apparently given him access to all sorts of advanced technology that would make even Gotham's best look like they were playing with plastic toys, Scarecrow's already impressive budget notwithstanding. Once they got talking again she learned Crane had resorted to poisoning water supplies and even experimenting on his own patients without their consent.

He wasn't exactly _forthcoming_ with where he got such information, but she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth...even _if_ said gift horse used to be an officer and had a close working relationship with the Commissioner. The same guy who created the Dent Act and messed up the lives of bastards, innocents _and_ friends alike. If Blake hadn't done her a solid back at the City Hall she would've already devoted him a prime spot on her Foot-Up-The-Ass list.

Still, it was what her college therapist would have considered a 'productive conversation'. Sherlock couldn't explain why people under the influence of the drug were always talking about drinks and emptiness and whatnot, but then again, neither could she. She was just glad the guy didn't brush it off as mere crazy talk. Their collaboration was going to go a _lot_ further if he was willing to read between the lines.

Frankly? He wasn't half bad. Barely knew him, but he could be pretty funny once he loosened up. Reasonable as long as you didn't push his buttons too hard (she'd have to jot that down for later). Guy also donated a _lot_ to one of the boy's homes, according to Tatsu. That was certainly one up on John 'Dead As A Doornail' Daggett. Now that she thought about it, there really were too many people named John in Gotham.

" _There are a few different ways he could be spreading the toxin around. Enough that he could affect hundreds of people and still make it look like some sort of weird trend instead of something more foul._ " He'd said over the phone. " _I've been taking water samples in as many places as I can._ "

"A detective, Good Samaritan _and_ hydrologist? Leave some careers for the regular folk, would ya."

He _might_ have laughed. Guy could get serious at the drop of a hat. " _Well, that's if the strips I got will actually identify whatever's in the water. So far I've just been getting the usual mineral build-up. At least, for sure, we know it's something in the air. The most unlikely theory I have would be a helicopter or drone spreading the gas. It'd work at a wide range, but it's not subtle."_

__

"He's also broke as a slot machine in Amusement Mile." She had added. He'd grunted his agreement, but there was still doubt in his voice.

__

" _Maybe. He could have some unseen benefactors slipping him some money on the side. The second theory I have, and one I think is most likely, is getting people to spread it for him. He's collaborated before and considering his, uh...fall from grace he's unlikely to hoof it now._ "

__

It was the very definition of an _a-ha!_ moment.

__

"Yeah, the guy never liked getting his hands _too_ dirty. Coward wouldn't even make his own bed." She'd responded in the middle of painting her nails. "So you want I should go around bustin' heads for information? See if anyone's seen any weird behavior?"

__

" _I'd prefer it if you kept the busting heads to a minimum, Harleen._ "

__

"And here I was thinking you understood me."

__

" _So...you used to room with him?_ " He had asked. " _Is there anything I should know?_ "

Maybe he had sounded a little suspicious. Maybe she was projecting. Probably not, but she'd emphasized anyway they were the furthest thing from pals and that the best information she has was that the guy was a miserable sack of shit who snored like the damned. That got an actual laugh out of him that time.

__

They still didn't completely trust each other. His intentions were good, at least, but she learned the hard way that good intentions weren't good enough. Come to think of it, wasn't the road to Hell paved with something like that? Harleen wasn't about to call him malicious, no, but she was going to keep an eye on him until they both got what they wanted. While waiting she rings up Tatsu to check in.

__

"How are my babies?"

__

" _They keep chewing on the sofa._ " Tatsu sighs. Frazzled, but like usual, not losing her head. " _How do you keep them entertained?_ "

__

"I _told_ ya, Bud likes it when you rub his tummy but only _after_ he's eaten and Lou's gotta have some one-on-one playtime because she gets antsy. Just give her one of those bones I found." A passerby squints at her and she gives them a winning smile. 

__

The hours crawl with a vengeance, not at all helped by the tremendous brainfreeze she gave herself halfway through her meal. The most suspicious person she sees turns out to be little more than a bootlegger attempting to garner some extra green (she checked out their wares because, hey, why not) and when she's not idling around for the right moment she's browsing the latest news on social media. There are quite a few more posts referring to 'the reckoning'. A lot of news stations kept referring to it as a generic term for whatever latest form of retaliatory violence made headlines. Whether or not they were _actually_ clueless as to Bane's biggest protest yet or were trying out more of that denial stew was up in the air.

__

The masked man was a theater teacher's wet dream, all wild eyes and fancy gestures despite the fact he looked _and_ sounded like an aging war veteran. He didn't even name the planned riot for downtown. He just gave it a flowery description during a rather amusing showcase over at The Narrows and, like a lot of things he said to a crowd, it stuck.

__

" _Fear not, Gotham. Your reckoning is on the way._ " He'd actually laughed, the first time she'd ever heard him do so over the air. " _Don't be late._ "

__

It's only when evening is peeking over the buildings and she's sure she's going to lose her mind all over again to boredom does she _finally_ see a chance to take action. Someone bundled up a little too much even for cold weather has crossed her vision no less than four times. Too redundant to be coincidence, she pulls up her hood before following.

__

Gothamites often wore heavy clothing. It only made sense in a city in a constant affair with winter. But keeping one's face covered didn't always fly. It made local officers even more paranoid than usual and many places wouldn't even serve customers until they pulled off whatever was obscuring their rugged good looks. With Bane Gotham's newest overseer, masks were even more hated than usual. Whether or not they looked better than the Joker's...well. She'd keep _that_ opinion under wraps.

__

Because of that it really said something when some people insisted on wearing them _anyway_...only to keep out of sight. It's kind of comical and she has to hold back laughter so _she_ doesn't stick out while trailing them. Sure enough they duck behind a corner and into the alley behind a breakfast joint. Reaching into their pocket they start squeezing something. For a second she's convinced she found the world's most active pervert, but sure enough something starts to tickle her senses. Like a bad high, something that makes her throat dry and her mind start to spin and shadows start to crawl in the corner of her vision. Unfortunately for them, this was nothing new.

__

Before they can pop out of the other side she takes advantage of the location to drive a knee into their stomach under the cover of shadow.

__

They slump over with little more than a cough. She hooks her arms underneath their shoulders and drags them fully out of sight just as a couple walk by, thankfully too engrossed in whatever's on their phone to catch a glimpse of what's probably a less-than-pleasant sight. Checking for excess damage (there'll be a nasty bruise the following day), she proceeds to rifle through their pockets.

__

Blinking away the shadows she pulls out a state ID, a handful of scratched and unscratched lottery tickets and a $50 bill. She pushes down the temptation to swipe that last one and starts digging through their other pockets.

__

' _Cat Girl would be so proud._ '

__

Just when she's starting to be convinced she just attacked someone actually innocent she pulls out a small, round metal ball. Small enough to inconspicuously fit in someone's pockets and covered with tiny holes. It reminded her of a tea strainer. It really was her lucky day. Harleen doesn't need to take another whiff to know what's inside the canister.

__

" _Jackpot_."

__

She's pulling out her phone when they sputter into wakefulness, gasping like they've just been hit in the gut. She holds them down with a foot to their chest when they try to get up. A voice calls to her just beyond the alley. She tells them to hush.

__

"Woke up sooner than I expected." Harleen says down at their terrified face. "Why don'tcha tell me where ya got this nice bauble of yours?"

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...also 'faded' by VAGUE003 _really_ reminds me of Blake and Bane. Especially that outro. I need to make a damn 8tracks already.


	35. Home Is Where The Heart Is

"Don't you want anything to eat?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine. Just trying to watch my diet."

He _could_ be honest and tell her 'cheese pizza, soda _and_ chocolate cake is going to give me the shits later', but he wasn't about to put a damper on a happy day. St. Swithin's saw a lot of birthdays, but that didn't make them any less special. This one, in particular, warranted an extra careful hand. Joel was turning seven and it was his first birthday since his parents separated. Reilly told him how the kid had been a ball of anxiety all morning, worried about everything his mind could possibly latch onto. Whether or not his friends got their invitations. Whether or not the cake he helped make would turn out right (he woke up in the middle of the night to check on it, according to Finn). Whether or not his mother would show.

Blake had arrived when the party was well underway, a cluster of balloons tied around the entrance and 'Happy Birthday Joel' hanging in colorful letters on the door. Tiya's birthday a month prior had been all the way across the city to visit his grandmother and Finn was looking forward to _his_ in two weeks. The orphanage was as busy as ever, sure, but they were bright spots on a city that got more unstable by the day. Despite him seeing firsthand some of the positive results brought about by Bane's regime (no more worrying about Daggett undermining Wayne Enterprises undermining Swithin's, _that_ was for sure), it sometimes got hard to parse the good from the bad when the shifting rules made the ones with power lash out.

For every step forward there was one backwards and two to the side. Pay raises would crop up here and there to soothe protesters, some even impressive in scale, only for yet _another_ curfew to be implemented in a 'problematic' neighborhood. Some city official would get their dirty laundry aired out for everyone to see _and_ a consequence to back it up (Gordon's indirect trend wasn't dying out yet), then a protester would be tried for five years over a broken cop window. Even the drive over to Swithin's had him hearing a story about a science lab being cracked down on for apparently conducting illegal experiments on the poor.

The head scientist of a facility supposedly pioneering stem cell research had used every last PR trick in the book during a brief television interview, though Blake could imagine it looked more like professional conduct to the untrained eye. It was up in the air how many lives had been ruined by their medical malpractice, but in his opinion, just one was too much.

" _If you see or hear anything concerning these missing persons, please contact local law enforcement as soon as possible._ " The journalist had said to the camera once the exchange was over. " _Jethro Phillips, Pamela Isley, Waylon Jones..._ "

The tug-of-war between justice and injustice was enough to make everyone sick. Life's little moments went a long way in helping it all go down.

"You're more than welcome to take some of that cake home, though." He tells Joel's mother as he adjusts his party hat. "I fear for Reilly's sanity if the kids keep sneaking in handfuls of sugar behind his back."

"...That's a good point." She says, reaching forward and taking a generous slice.

The strained building was really showing its age with the guests, the floors and walls contributing to the lively chatter with plaintive creaks and squeaks. Reilly had done his best to spruce it up in advance, but Blake liked to imagine it was just part of Swithin's charm. The old Father absolutely didn't agree and he could feel fussiness hanging over his head like a cloud throughout the celebratory cake slicing and the birthday song. No matter how many times he told him kids were too young to give a crap about holes in the floorboards.

Joel's mother had been in fine form, eager to help in any way possible despite being clearly overwhelmed by the boys' energy. She was dressed a touch formally in a blazer and pencil skirt, something more suited for church than a kid's party. Then again, she hadn't seen her boy in-person since he first arrived all those months back. She was likely attempting to make up the lost time and on-again, off-again phonecalls with more effort than was needed. It said a lot about her, all things told, and Blake could tell even through their casual conversation over the boys' chatter that he would grow to appreciate her presence in the orphanage.

To his surprise Bane shows up right as the boys are getting into the competitive spirit over a round of birthday games. Jay had won charades three times in a row ("No _fair!_ " Tiya had howled. "He's extra good at those!") and Amir was more than a little eager to try his hand at pictionary. Blake opens the door to see him with a large bag and a small box tucked under one arm, the other frozen in mid-knock. He can feel his worries tucking themselves away in the back of his mind like a squirrel in its treehole. It made him happy beyond words seeing the man finding a little time for them in the midst of all he had to do.

Maybe he had gotten through to him more than he thought.

"You're right on time." Blake says with a self-aware grin. "They just started the games."

"That smile of yours has me concerned." Bane responds mildly, stepping inside and kicking dirt onto the mat. His motorcycle is further down the curb, a different model than he remembers, and he distantly wonders if he switches it up to avoid scrutiny. It's just as well, because the radio had also told him Gotham was only two inches away from going on full-lockdown. His jacket is a little more bulky than normal, too, the already impressive swell to his shoulders and chest more pronounced, and he can tell the guy's suited up for a fight beneath that standard biker outfit.

There's a lull in the noise now. The Swithin's boys and their friends alike are curiously peering around the corner to view their unexpected visitor -- Amir shyly waves and Finn calls out a welcome around a mouthful of cake. A happy howl and a _clatter_ and Joel is nearly tripping over himself in his scramble to get down from the table. His heart skips a beat when Bane picks him up again, as gentle as if he were his own, and holds him steady on his hip.

"I'm _seven!_ " Joel crows. "Do you want cake? I made it with Reilly. It's blue and I ate too much, but it tastes good. The blue makes it taste even better."

"I'm afraid I'm on a low-sugar diet." Bane responds. "Please enjoy it in my stead."

The kid is far too giddy to be disappointed and proceeds to ramble about his mother's arrival, Reilly being a bad singer and all the presents he has to open. It doesn't take Blake much cleverness to usher him back into the living room, his master plan beginning and ending with 'you have gifts'. Bane offers him the paper bag, almost overflowing with fruits and vegetables, and hands the small box to Joel before he runs off.

"Wow. Thanks. Where'd you find the time for all this?" He asks, trying damn hard not to keep grinning and letting his romantic heart get the better of him. He stares appreciatively as Bane rolls his neck and flexes his arms in a stretch, the jacket tightening over his chest nicely.

"We have generous patrons who see us thoroughly supplied. I was to meet outside the city once my men return from their shift, only to remember you told me about Joel's birthday." He tilts his head at Blake's growing frown. "I can also rest later."

His chest sinks. Skipping sleep? He hadn't _tried_ to pester him into dropping by. He knew he had an entire bomb-to-be to find and appearances to show up to. Just wanted him to know he wanted him around. Around even as people leading double-lives could do. A creeping note of guilt winds its way through him. Bane's voice rumbles through his thoughts like a breath of fresh air.

"You're never a waste of my time, John." He murmurs, one hand ghosting along his hip. Aw, damn. He can't help it. He smiles, a little too big, and sees just how silly he looks in the man's tinted visor.

"Though...I'm afraid it must be brief." He continues, hand moving surreptitiously up his side. A fleeting touch as affectionate as it is regretful. A squawk from Joel has him turning around just as the kid is bouncing back down the hall to dance excitedly between them.

"Come meet my friends!" He begs. "Please, please, _please_ , please, please."

"I need to put these away, anyway." Blake offers. "I'll be there in a minute." Bane allows himself to be tugged along by one hand, stepping carefully down the narrow hallway behind the kid's uneven gait. Seeing the infamous masked man patiently attending to a seven year-old's every whim is one of the strangest and most adorable contradictions he's seen in a while.

"Who's your fri-...oh." Sasha says breathlessly as Blake starts unpacking. It didn't take a detective to figure out she was more than a little impressed with the huge, heavily muscled man in tight leather that just showed up on the orphanage's doorstep. Blake rubs his hair and thinks of how to explain. Less is more, it seems, because she immediately starts apologizing when she sees his strained smile.

"Oh! I'm sorry." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and starts helping him put away fruit. "I didn't mean to be rude."

"Nothing rude about it." Reilly remarks as he walks in, shaking confetti out of his hair. "He's Blake's mysterious benefactor." A short pause. "I suppose. He hasn't given us many details, but the boys have never stopped gossiping since he first stopped by." His wiry brows quirk his way and Blake can harbor a few guesses as to what the nosier kids were saying when he wasn't around. As if summoned Tiya peeks into the kitchen and hisses in the most conspiratorial whisper he can muster behind one hand.

"They're _dating._ "

Reilly gives him a sharp word and the boy flees back into the party room with a giggle. Blake adjusts his collar, the kitchen a lot warmer than it was a few minutes ago. They both turn to him expectantly and he realizes he actually has to answer.

"He's...definitely a benefactor." He wonders if he should go check on the guy. The boys were crazier than housecats on catnip with all that sugar and he hadn't forgotten his temper short-circuiting last time he dropped by. "Dating is...well, it's not _technically_ that formal..." Reilly's eyes widen and he has to bite back the world's loudest laugh.

"So it's _true?_ " He immediately closes the cupboard. He hasn't seen him this shocked since he told him he was joining the force. "Oh, Blake, this is _great_ news. I was starting to give up hope."

"Thanks." He snorts. Reilly shakes his head vigorously and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"No, no. It's not that. You're just always overworking yourself. When you're not spending time with the boys you're running all over the city doing a million things. I was worried you'd never loosen up enough to just live your life. Enjoy your youth, you know? Especially after that _disastrous_ -"

Blake interrupts him with a polite cough. "I'm, uh, sure Sasha doesn't want to hear about my romantic adventures."

"Actually..." She offers him an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid I'm siding with Reilly on this one. Joel seems to like him a lot. I'd love to know more." Like something out of a romantic comedy they all turn in tandem to peer into the party room. Bane is standing with his hands folded behind his back as Joel holds up a hat and encourages him to put it on. One of the kids tentatively reaches out to touch his jacket, only to be smacked on the hand by Jay.

"He's been a huge help." Blake _swears_ Reilly's chest is puffing out like a pigeon. "Every time he visits he's either helping us with food or looking after the boys. I know he doesn't look the type, but I can tell he's a family man. He's got that air to him." He frowns and lowers his voice a notch. "But just to be clear...he's _not_ in a gang, right?"

"You're forgetting I was practically in a state-sanctioned gang for a while." Blake responds smoothly, reaching into the bag and biting into one of the half-ripe pears. Real food after nothing but sugar and salt tastes like heaven. Sasha's brows furrow in concern, as if wondering where the implication could even come from.

"But what does he _do_ for a living?" His frown isn't as deep as normal, more thoughtful than it is worried. "What are his hobbies? You've been dating all this time and I hardly know two things about the guy." He mutters out of the side of his mouth. "Haven't even seen his _face_ yet." Now Sasha just looks baffled, mouth hanging somewhere between a smile and a jaw-drop.

"You haven't seen his face?" She looks over her shoulder. "You mean he doesn't take that off?"

"Come on, you're not all about to start twenty questions on Joel's birthday." Blake laughs. "You can always wait until mine."

"And have you dodge twenty questions then?" He grumps. Now he knows the guy's curious if he's actually _snarking_.

"Aw, look at how _red_ he is." Sasha laughs, nudging Reilly and making Blake stifle a groan. "Mr. Blake, don't leave the good Father hanging. I'll start off with an easy question. Where did you two meet?" She winks. "Look at how nice I am. I didn't even ask about the helmet thing yet."

He doesn't want to drop it, not with them both looking so genuinely happy on his behalf, but it's either that or give them a premature heart attack. "We met in Gotham. It was...um...unexpected." He starts, a little lamely. "We actually didn't see eye-to-eye at first. Didn't think we'd hit it off later, especially with things being so...hectic." He looks back again. Bane is kneeling and observing Amir's drawings. Even after the gallery showing he could be a little shy about showing off his work, but something Bane is saying makes him perk up eagerly.

"He's...really something else, though. I've never known anyone like him." Reilly clasps his hands together like a proud mother. Damn if he doesn't look genuinely happy. He glances into the room again. The kid that tried to touch his jacket earlier, a boy he remembers from Joel's class, is poking at Bane's boots now. The man doesn't move an inch as the kid promptly sits on his foot and tells him rather loudly he's taller than Gotham tower. It might be time to step in.

"Why don't we open presents early, then?" Blake offers as he walks into the room. The boys immediately start pushing boxes and bags at Joel, soon crowding the tiny kid in gifts and making his eyes glow as if he's about to burst with joy. Reilly snaps a quick photo on his phone and Blake makes a mental note to ask him for copies later.

Bane is looming and dark and quiet, like an impassive tower in the middle distance, but he's watching the kids intently, head twitching from one side to the other as they hurriedly gather around to watch. Even after a few visits this domestic environment must feel as strange to him as his militaristic lifestyle is to Blake.

Joel plunks down on the floor and pulls out Bane's present. "He has to go soon." He says to one of his friends. "I'll open yours next, okay?"

Blake beams at his thoughtfulness, though the smile quickly leaves his face at the sight of what's in the box. One-by-one all the kids peer over the birthday boy's shoulder and gape at the polished military-grade knife sitting in the middle. He has to resist the urge to swipe it from Joel's hands when he pokes at it.

" _Wow_. It's like from the movies." He says. Bane shrugs. Reilly looks confused and Sasha looks quietly horrified.

"Yes." Even _he's_ not quite sure if the man knows of the social faux pas of giving small children weapons. "To better prepare you for-"

"For _cooking_ , right?" Blake interjects with forced cheer. He ignores Bane's (probably) piercing stare. "He's a little young for those, but we can always supervise when he's chopping vegetables. I still don't trust him to walk with scissors, you know." He adds for Sasha's benefit.

"You could dress up as the Joker for Halloween with _that._ " Tiya gasps.

"I don't _wanna_ be the Joker." Joel pouts. "I wanna use it to cut fruit for fruitcake."

"You don't want to make fruitcake." Finn says. "Trust me."

"Uh, why don't we play a quick game? Then open the rest of the presents once he leaves?" He elbows Bane in the side a little harder than he would otherwise as the boys start debating game ideas. It's like elbowing a tree trunk. "He doesn't get to visit often, after all. Be a shame to waste the opportunity."

Bane stands still and says nothing, but he doubts it's because of a lack of words.

It's a rather fierce round of rock-paper-scissors as they decide which game to pick. It gets so heated that Reilly, as per usual, has to step in and choose one -- being the supremely old-fashioned guy he is he chooses Pin The Tail On The Donkey out of the dozen or so options, a game a few of the younger kids hadn't even heard of before. The Father explains the rules as quickly as he can, sensing the adrenaline in the room, and sure enough he has them hooked on the concept. There's a certain novelty to it, Blake supposes, as even the disappointed kids who wanted something rougher (read: violent) get into it. Bane, on the other hand, is just confused.

"Pin it on the wall." His tone makes it clear what he thinks of the actual 'challenge' aspect of the game.

"Well, you'll be blindfolded." Reilly offers with a smile.

"And?"

"And, er, it's much more difficult when spun around."

"Where did this game come from?"

Reilly scratches his neck. "I'm...actually not sure."

Joel goes first on birthday boy honor. He teeters around with one hand in front of him and the other precariously needling the air to their encouraging hoots and hollers -- he nearly stabs Finn as he runs into the couch and doubles over on the cushion in his eagerness. The boys as well as his mother start yelling out variations of 'hot' and 'cold' ("You're a Gotham _winter_ , Joel!" Finn laughs) to help him near the photo on the far wall. When he pushes up his blindfold he all but deflates when he sees he pinned the stomach.

__

"Hey, now." Sasha says with a careful hand on his shoulder. "That's still pretty good."

"I thought I'd get birthday powers." He says with a surprisingly affected sigh.

"How about this." She offers reasonably. "Use your birthday powers to choose the next player." It takes the boy all of one second.

" _You're_ next!" He calls to Bane, holding out the pin in both hands like a precious antique. It nearly vanishes between the masked man's thick fingers when he bends to pick it up. Blake does the honors of wrapping the cloth around his helmet, the visor already narrow to begin with. It finally hits him how silly this is.

"Why don't we make this a little extra hard." He says with a poorly-disguised cough. "Let's start him all the way down the hall."

"Wouldn't that be unfair?" Amir says from where he's sitting. "Since he's never played before..."

"Oh, don't worry about it." Blake responds with a strained smile. "He's got a _wicked_ sense of direction."

He tugs Bane after him, though he barely makes it down the hallway before he can't hold it back anymore. Bane is dead silent as Blake leans on the wall and tries and fails to choke back gales of laughter.

"I am _never_ going to see anything this funny again. I thought Reilly dancing to euro-pop last Christmas was the toast of the town, but..." He cackles, holding his sides in his fit. "Oh, I _wish_ I could record this!"

"You laugh at me, yet look like a one-horned goat." Bane mutters, twisting the tiny pin in one hand. The guy could probably still kill someone with it.

"And _you_ look like you're ready for the world's strangest stunt show." Blake wheezes. Still leaning to one side he pushes a hand onto Bane's shoulder, urging him to move in a circle. Like a rusty turnstile he slowly, grudgingly, starts to pivot in place. While the detective's not actually sure the man's capable of being dizzy, he doesn't take any chances and waits until he's spun a good ten or eleven times before letting him stop.

"Is this a common Gotham custom?" He says when he faces the party room again.

"Oh, sure. We do it every third Thursday of every month."

"...An interesting lie."

"All right, no more stalling." Blake wipes his eyes with his thumb. "Phew. Go on, now."

He's not the only one who's tickled. A few of the boys (even Amir) are snickering behind their hands as he makes his way down the hall. This is probably the funniest thing _they've_ seen all day, too, which was saying something since Blake had to sing his own version of the birthday song since he was late. Joel had requested he do so in French and he had to drudge up his college classes on the spot, much to Reilly's chagrin. Now that he thought about it, he's pretty glad Bane arrived later.

Their restrained giggles die down to nothing as Bane hunches his massive frame through the narrow doorway and steps into the room. After a moment's pause he daintily navigates his way through the cluster of bodies without so much as ruffling a hair, outright _stepping_ over Joel's head, and promptly sticks the pin in the donkey's paper ass.

Amir shakes his head in disbelief. He looks at Jay, who holds up a hand mid-sign only to turn to Finn. Sasha looks to Reilly for an explanation, who shrugs helplessly and looks to him.

' _I told you._ ' Blake mouths cheerfully.

Bane pushes up the blindfold and peers at their shocked faces when nobody says anything. "...I win."

" _Wow._ " Joel breathes, eyes huge with wonder. It's just as well, because everyone else looks confused, creeped out or both. A knock on the door punctures the moment, enough to make some of the boys jump. The detective gets up before Reilly can get out of his chair and jogs out of the room and down the hallway.

He grimaces when his old co-worker waves through the peephole. Out of all the damn days. Jeff grins when he reluctantly steps out the door and pulls off his party hat, seeming to harbor no such ill will, and claps him on the shoulder. "Blake, my man. Didn't think you'd be here."

"This is practically my second home, Jeff." He says, resisting the urge to shrug his hand off. "What's this about?"

"Nothing serious, don't worry." He pulls out a sheet of paper. "Can I come in?"

"I'd appreciate it if you could answer my question."

The man's smile becomes a little strained, but he continues on without a hitch. "The department is considering policy changes for the future. We're just spreading the word and asking for opinions." The officer glances over his shoulder and god _damn_ it he wish he hadn't, because an immediate air of suspicion passes over his face. He knows he's looking at the huge, hulking man sticking out like a sore thumb among a bunch of elementary kids. "There are, uh, suspicious people around...? Yeah, we're going door-to-door, asking questions, you know. Standard stuff. Trying to make communities safer."

"I _do_ know the standard stuff." He closes the door a little more, just enough to keep his next words outside where they belong. "That it's less simple questions and more a way for you to interrogate innocent people under the guise of being a good Samaritan."

Jeff holds his hands up. "Woah. Relax, Blake. It's just procedure." He squints through the crack in the door again at the sound of a loud _pop_ , followed by a gush of laughter. "Who's, uh...your friend, there?"

"You've got to be kidding me. Are you really going to do this now?" He shuts the door with a hard _snap_ and stares the man down. "My kid's birthday is today. We're all trying to have a good time and take a break from a city the department has done a _shit_ job of looking after. The last thing anyone at an underfunded boy's home needs is yet another reminder of what they have to go through every damn week."

Jeff's jaw works irritably throughout his entire spiel. "Where the hell do you get off on being holier-than-thou, hothead?" He mutters. "I'm just trying to do my job here and you _always_ have to make everything into an event."

"You ever think for one second not doing what you're told?" Blake all but snorts. "No wonder they called us lapdogs."

He watches as the younger man glances over his shoulder and back again, caught in a debate between muscling his way through or dropping it. The only sound that can be heard for a few precarious moments is the garbage truck trundling across the frosty street.

"...All right. Fine." He finally says, stuffing the paper back in his pocket. "I'll take your word for it." It's not true shame, not really, something more sullen and therefore much more dangerous, but he'll take what he can get. "You know Gotham might be going on lockdown soon, right?"

"I heard some rumors on the radio." Blake responds coolly. "Wonder if it'll work as well as the department's curfews."

"And what the hell have _you_ done, hothead?" The man sneers. "Because from where I stand you sound like all talk and no walk."

' _I'm figuring out who's behind these gas attacks while your department makes boogiemen out of everyday people._ ' He wants to snap. ' _You're nothing more than a jock with a gun._ '

____

"Right now I'm spending time with my family." He crosses his arms in the most casual show of arrogance he can muster. "Don't you have some flyers to hand out?"

____

Blake watches him as he gets back into his car and waits until he's well out of sight before heading back inside. Wherever his good humor took off to it was long gone. The playful atmosphere of the day feels tainted, somehow, and he clenches his fist in a nauseating moment of frustration. He knows better than to bring it over to the kids, so he finds himself an isolated spot against the wall, plunks his back against it and takes a few minutes to cool down.

____

He really didn't make a dent in that place. No matter how hard he tried. It's enough to make him wonder how much _more_ time he wasted without even realizing. It's an utterly sobering topic, something his subconscious distantly tells him is a self-fulfilling prophecy, and it takes a sudden hand on his shoulder to jolt him out of his reverie. Startled, he looks up at his own reflection.

____

"This doesn't seem like any way to enjoy the occasion." Bane says matter-of-factly. A few paper strings cling to his coat. Probably the aftermath of one of those party poppers Joel liked so much. Without hesitation he drops his forehead on the man's chest. It's hard not to wonder what would've happened if Jeff had insisted on barging in. It wouldn't have been pretty, that was for sure. He presses his forehead against the front of his jacket as if to grind the thought away.

____

"Yeah. I mean, no. It doesn't." Bane's gloved fingers move up his back and find their way to his hair. His shoulders sag as he lets out a sigh that feels like a thousand years old.

____

"Confetti looks good on you." Blake mumbles into the leather.

____

"What a unique taste you have." He feels his laugh more than hears it, a hidden gem rumbling through his chest.

____

They stand in the entrance quietly soaking in each other's company, sandwiched between the playful clamor and distant din of the outside world. Bane's other hand is on his shoulder, both a comforting weight and a revelation. Amazing him, even now, that they ended up here. Of _all_ places. Waking up in a cell and trying not to shit himself in terror feels more far away than even the oldest memory. Like losing his ball in the park when he was five or going on his first date when he was seventeen. A collection of thoughts like any other, with all their fierce emotions and little sensations locked away to be opened at will.

____

Another sigh, much more content, escapes him when the man starts to rub the nape of his neck. It was hard not to feel spoiled, receiving these tiny, tender affections from him. When he thought about it, something about their meeting those days back was like a floodgate breaking open. Well, maybe not _quite_ so much. More like cracks in a foundation. Little trickles of change, a prelude to something greater. It was thrilling. Still a little scary. It was hard not to push for more. See what was waiting around the corner.

____

He ponders how Bane admitted to basic human weakness like his greatest shame, restrained and careful and always threatening to overflow regardless. How tender he was being here, when he would have never suspected anything of the sort before.

____

Blake's chest tightens when he remembers Bane had actually held him through the night.  


____

"Thanks." He breathes in the pleasant, familiar scent of leather and tea, muffled a little by his still-cold nose. The old wooden doors and cracks in the floorboards meant the place was always a little too chilly. "Just got a lot on my mind and seeing an old co-worker didn't help." He scoffs moodily. "Guy's a prick."

____

He waits for a response, but doesn't get one. He looks up again and stares into the impassive bronze of his visor.

____

"Hey. You all right...?"

____

"...Protect them, John." His voice is more somber than he ever remembers hearing it. "It will only get harder from here."

____

His stomach sinks. "Wait, are you talking about what we said outside...?"

____

"No." He's suddenly curt. "Your little officer is not an immediate concern." He relaxes a little. "Only now am I seeing..." Then he hesitates, as if words aren't enough to express what he's feeling. "...how much Talia missed." His voice lowers. "What I've missed."

____

It clicks. What he'd viewed as fish-out-of-water fascination was just a little bit further south. A sharp note of melancholy pulls through him, followed by a fierce wave of affection. He wants to keep sharing this world with him. Catch him up one small, happy memory at a time.

____

"What'd you think?" He asks, not hiding his curiosity. Bane tilts his head from side-to-side in thought.

____

"Noisy. Intimate. I have never attended a coming-of-age ceremony like this." He touches the folded party hat in Blake's pocket. "What are these for?"

____

"Oh, these?" Blake pulls it out. "You just wear them."

____

"I deduced this." Bane responds with a touch of humor. "But what significance do they hold?"

____

"Uh. I honestly have no idea." He sputters out a laugh and turns the shiny paper hat this way and that in the vague light. "So much for showing you the ropes." He smirks mischievously. " _Sure_ you don't want to try it on?"

____

"Seeing you wear it with such _dignity_ was an already impressive gift."

____

"Speaking of gifts...what's up the knife?" He asks with a quirk of his brow. "I don't want to sound totally patronizing here, but giving kids pointy objects is _generally_ seen as a no-no."

____

"Such a violent city insists on such peculiar rules for its residents." There's no embarrassment to be found. He wonders if he's ever felt the emotion. "You told me the boy has been in compromising situations before."

____

"Well...yeah." He frowns. "But that's why we're here. To look after him. He doesn't need a-"

____

"And if you cannot?"

____

Blake looks to the side. Self-defense was something he taught the older boys when he had the chance, but it was an on-and-off thing at the best of times. Bane sinks back into silence and Blake has to force himself not to press overmuch. Even as his mind starts piecing together the story hidden in his words. Did Talia have no choice but to defend herself? From what? ...Who?

____

No. He shouldn't press. Not with a topic this sensitive. What could seem like a baby step for him could be a leap for another. Considering Talia, as far as he knew, was pretty much Bane's _entire_ family...

____

"How do you know your efforts won't go down a worse path?" The man says, suddenly, as startling as if he'd yelled. "That something good won't be merely perverted once your back is turned...?"

____

It takes him a moment to realize...Bane is asking for _help._ Indirectly and barely, as was his way, but still. He has to take a moment to think, even as he admits, sadly, he has no _damn_ clue. Talia was more than just a special case. She was like something out of an old folktale, a fantastical and cautionary case with just enough ambiguity to keep professors and students bickering for decades.

____

Bane had raised her in an ancient prison. No...not just raised her. She was _born_ there. A place dubbed by some as a near-literal Hell on earth. She'd somehow found a way out, then came _back_ for him. There was a bond between them he could only fathom...and that bomb turned into a genocidal anger that could've seen Gotham blown up in his sleep.

____

Bane lets out a soft _huff_. Blake holds onto him when he starts to pull back, urging him to stay even as he struggles to find the words. He acquiesces, barely, but it's tenuous. Blake can tell he wants to yank away that vulnerability and bury it all over again.

____

"This isn't...something I'm entirely familiar with." Blake's voice lowers, even though they've been well and truly alone. "But...I do have a few thoughts on the matter." He looks around anyway to make sure no kids are snooping.

____

"...I am listening."

____

It was worth a shot.

____

"I wasn't what many would consider an ideal son when I was younger." He starts. "I mean, I know she's an _adult_ now, but she'll always be your kid. For better and for worse."

____

Like a dusty film reel old memories flicker on-and-off. Blood crusting on the ground. The cold crunch of snow beneath his feet. A brick that shakes the silence. So vivid are the sensations he half-expects his breath to puff out white before him in the warm hallway. His voice echoes strangely in his ears.

____

"When I came to Swithin's I did something terrible. Something that would've made most people consider me a lost cause. Hell...some did." Details, distinct and garbled, swim beneath the surface. "I know you have to leave soon, so this is probably a story for another time. But what you're dealing with is...hard." He looks at where the man's eyes would be. "Whether or not being a parent affects your better judgement, I don't blame you for not giving up on her."

____

Bane's head tilts, just barely, something like surprise in the tiny movement. It's validating, at least, knowing how overprotective he is of his murderous daughter.

____

"I see the world more differently now than I ever did. Gordon or I could've ended up dead in those sewers. We were all but ready to...well, sentence you to a pretty cruel death." He says, parroting Bane's past words without a trace of irony. "Yet that didn't happen. Far from it. Gordon escaped with little more than an injury, you gave me another chance and Gotham is...changing. Little by little." He's worried Bane might think he's rambling. Instead he's utterly still, staring down at him with even his mechanical _wheeze_ muffled by the helmet.

____

"What I'm trying to say is...there's a lot of things that could've gone so much worse and hadn't. A lot of things I wanted to turn out great that went in another direction entirely. Because of chance, fate, skill...well." He shrugs. "Nothing's as easy as it should be, is it?"

____

"Never." Bane responds, simply.

____

"You know her better than I do. You know how she got to this point probably better than anyone. Sometimes a good thing doesn't stay a good thing, but I don't see that as any reason to quit while you're ahead." He reaches down and gives his hand a little squeeze. "Just...know I'll be here. As you...you know. Figure it out." It feels like a weak compromise, but simple hope was often the best he had when everything else seemed unreliable.

____

Bane, to his relief, doesn't seem to share his meager sentiment. He deliberates over what he's said for a few moments, then reaches down and takes his hand, mimicking his gesture with incredible gentleness.

____

"I appreciate your honesty." He says, moving his other hand down his side in a longing gesture for more.

____

"Seems like you appreciate that and then some." Blake responds with a grin. Bane gives his ass a squeeze at that and he playfully pushes it away, without fervor. It comes across, because now he's backed up against the nook before the door, the masked man's incredible size drinking up the light behind him and dressing him down in shadow. It's as if the world has taken ten and they're completely alone.

____

"Before I neglect to mention..." Bane presses his forehead, or where his forehead would be, to his. "It is good to hear you laugh." Blake swallows thickly when the man's voice grows husky. "How good it would be to wake up to it."

____

"Who knows what the future holds." He reaches behind him and up to flick the light off. Snaking his arms over his broad shoulders Blake eases his helmet off and holds it across the man's back. Blake leans forward and presses his lips beneath the man's eye.

____

"Let's try to find more moments together." He says against his skin. "When we can, yeah?"

____

Bane _hums_ appreciatively. "I will try."

____

He believes him.

____

They remain near the foyer for a few more minutes. Saying nothing and savoring a spot of peace. Blake finds himself mentally counting every second until they reluctantly detangle and say their goodbyes. He catches a glimpse of Bane's eyes in the dim hallway light as he pulls back and straps his helmet back on, something fond softening his expression before it vanishes beneath the bronze. He can't remember the last time someone looked at him like that.

____

Blake watches him as he gives Reilly a respectful parting word, watches as he pulls out from the sidewalk, lifts a gloved hand in farewell and revs out of sight. Pushes his hands in his pockets and stares at the plume of smoke left in his wake. Reilly walks out with a bundle of discarded wrapping paper in his arms, gaze notably averted and a rare smile playing on his lips.

____

The rest of the day is less eventful and thankfully so. A few of the older boys retire upstairs to study, while the younger ones huddle around Joel and watch a movie. Blake savors the relative peace in the dining room with Sasha, shooting the shit as the evening winds down to a close. He could tell she's felt a little out of place since she arrived and he wants to put her at ease, even if it was just through small talk about the latest ball game.

____

"I swear, the stadium could cave in on itself and it still wouldn't get him to drop that ball." She chuckles. "He's a wunderkind, for sure."

____

"True. It's a shame they had to switch out Jamison, though." A yawn interrupts him momentarily, hard enough to make his jaw crack. "...Sorry. He was the only other reason worth watching, in my opinion."

____

"You look ready to pass out." She says with a sympathetic quirk to her mouth. Blake gives her a smile he _hopes_ doesn't look as tired as he feels, but it's clearly about as convincing as the local news station because Sasha promptly gets to her feet, turns on her heel and heads into the kitchen. She comes back out a few minutes later with a hot cup of coffee asking if he'd like a dollop of milk or sugar. She's learned her away around the orphanage fast.

____

"I'll take it plain. You're an angel." He sighs as he takes a deep drink. Caffeine and his own stubbornness was all that was keeping him from just curling up beneath the table and catching twenty winks. Well, that _and_ the nightmares. Searching anything and everything to do with Scarecrow was taking up the better part of his nights when he wasn't squeezing in just enough freelance jobs to keep his apartment warm. Despite this, exhaustion still wasn't quite the sleeping pill he hoped for.

____

"Hardly. You'd fit that description better." She goes back in and comes out with another mug. He can see the hidden words on her lips.

____

"Got something on your mind?" He offers, even as he knows what's coming next. It's been steadily growing on her face for the last few hours. Something strained. Painful, even. He's seen this very thing many times before growing up in Swithin's.

____

"I can't...stress how much this means to me, Mr. Blake." She starts, softly, hard to hear even in the dull quiet. She insisted on calling him that, even though it made him feel weird and much too formal. "It's a wonder how you manage with so many boys under one roof. Everything you've done here is...incredible. I haven't seen Joel this happy since..." She taps her nails on the paper plate in her lap, shoulders sagging morosely. "...well."

____

He follows her gaze to where Joel sits on the couch, cheerfully sorting through his new presents under Amir's watchful eye. He got a spotted raincoat, a wooden roller and more candy than he likely knows what to do with. He's still wearing the small oven mitts Blake bought him -- it makes it rather difficult for him to flip through one of the magazines a schoolfriend brought him, but he chugs forward with his usual dogged determination.

____

"Don't blame yourself." Blake downs the rest of the coffee. "You did the right thing by bringing him here." The shame in her eyes, however, isn't one he can shake so easily. She didn't get to visit often. Sasha had already told both him and Reilly why her schedule was so packed many months back, eager to confess perceived sins to any sympathetic ears. Juggling therapy and community college was a taxing combo, of course. Anyone would accept that. Even still, he suspected something deeper than a busy schedule.

____

"I don't ever remember him being so excited when he lived with me." She mutters, staring down at her pointed shoes. "I don't..."

____

There it was. The bone-deep regret that came with being unable to give a child the entire world. No matter how badly one wanted to. He also knew it wouldn't be absolved with a few words.

____

Like hell it would stop him from trying, though, and he leans forward on his elbows to catch her gaze as it threatens to wander down a beaten path. "Better late than never, huh? I mean, look at how lucky he is. He has a mother who loves him more than _anything_. A bunch of funny, thoughtful, protective big brothers. Even his very own crotchedy grandpa." That makes her laugh, a shaky and wet one, and he smiles back. "It's not an easy decision. I know. Orphanages often feel...mm, like a last resort. Nobody wants to feel like that's what they're giving their kid."

____

She shakes her head a little, though whether it's in disagreement or shame he can't tell.

____

"I know we haven't talked much, but I can tell you love him." He pulls out a cigarette and stands up, holding his other hand out to her. "I lost my mother twenty-five years ago, but I never forgot what she gave me."

____

He politely redirects Tiya when he peeks into the kitchen and asks if they want to join them. Walks Sasha out to the porch, lights his cigarette and sits with her while she lets the tears out away from the party.

____

Evening is almost gone now, everything dim and just barely orange. It's beautiful, even a little startling, and he breathes his smoke out to the side as not to break up the sight. He hopes his mother never felt this sort of shame when money had gotten too tight. He hopes his grandmother knew, as caregivers tended to way deep down, that his anger toward her had been nothing more than a naive child's attempt to cope.

____

' _How do we make the world a better place against so much opposition?_ ' He thinks as she checks her smudged make-up in a pocket mirror a few minutes later. ' _Not all battles are won where we can see. Not all historical gamechangers make the front pages._ ' They walk back inside just as Reilly's taking photos. Blake crouches next to Joel on the floor, his mother kneeling on the other side with the boys crowding onto the couch, and makes a funny face he knows the kid will laugh at later.

____

' _Most don't, I think._ '

__\--_ _

He stays the night at St. Swithin's, not trusting himself to drive back home in his exhausted state. He manages to take a quick shower (more stepping into the hot water and stepping back out again) before slumping onto the bed, but before he knows it he's wide-awake and unable to do anything more than stare at the wall. His stomach grumbles on-and-off, still not entirely happy about its diet of coffee, fruit and frosting.

____

Worries and fears weasel their way into his peripheries, almost impossible to ignore in his wide-awake state. Regret was a waste of time, but like an addiction he'd somehow find an excuse to give it attention. His conversation with Bane gnaws at him with would-haves and could-haves (at least the masked man straight-up hated those, too). He wonders just what the man took to heart and what he brushed aside. Even more...he wonders if anything he said would actually come to pass.

____

Would Talia _actually_ change? Was he being overly optimistic or just straight-up delusional by suggesting the possibility? He told Bane the truth. That was the end of it. But sometimes the truth felt like an open flame. It was revealing, even comforting at times. In the wrong hands it was a disaster just waiting to happen. A few months ago he wouldn't have even entertained the latter.

____

He'd thought the truth was a good thing no matter what. Growing up in a city that practically _pioneered_ corruption no doubt had influenced such an extreme view. ...Now? With all the secrets he's having to keep and half-truths he's been trailing, he wasn't so sure.

____

A soft _knock_. Reilly peers in when he calls out, already frowning in apology.

____

"Sorry to barge in like this. Didn't know if you were awake. I wanted to ask you something."

____

Blake throws on a shirt before pulling up a stool. Reilly sits down, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Not a bad party, all things told." He starts, slyly. Blake shrugs.

____

"Cake turned out pretty nice. Kid's got talent."

____

"Yes, yes. Also, you and Behnam seem quite close." Blunt old man. Blake doesn't have it in him to huff good-naturedly. If anything he's still feeling a little warm about it all, despite his worried thoughts buzzing at him like summer flies.

____

"A little. I mean, it's nothing certain." He mutters, hating how sheepish he sounds. "We've hardly been at it for more than a few months..."

____

"Of course. I wasn't born yesterday." Reilly responds gently. "It's just good to see you so happy. For however brief or long it is." It's touching to hear. He's always known the good Father wanted the best for him. Actions spoke louder than words, after all, and he had a proverbial megaphone of good deeds ringing in his ears. Maybe he was no longer religious, but he was convinced angels came in unexpected forms. Not the winged sprites coating church ceilings, but the friend weathering the blows of life at one's side with good humor and a steady shoulder.

____

Then he's wringing his hands and Blake can feel the weight of what he's going to say long before it comes out into the open.

____

"Been meaning to talk to you about this for a while, but I never got the time. I wanted to talk about...you taking over when I pass." He starts. "I'm not at the age where I can ignore this sort of thing anymore. The times are more dangerous than ever and it's...well. It's something that's really been on my mind." His voice becomes more characteristically troubled. It's familiar, but doesn't make him feel better. "Of course, I wouldn't expect you to drop everything and commit full-time. I've already called a few people who might be interested in taking part-time positions here. Volunteer, of course. I compensate the best I can, but-"

____

Reilly trails off, letting the disappointed silence speak for him. Blake opens his mouth to tell him of _course_ he'll take over for him, but the words die halfway. Could he? Bane didn't make promises he couldn't keep. Not with so much on the line. He shouldn't, either. He wasn't in the force anymore, but he had his little operation with Harleen. Where it lead would depend on whether or not they were onto something or he got stabbed in an alleyway somewhere sniffing along the wrong trail. His chest aches at the disappointment in Reilly's eyes.

____

"I'd never give up on Swithin's." He starts. "You know that."

____

"But?"

____

"But...I have...a lot on my plate." He finishes, a little miserably. "I don't know how committed I can be over the comings months. I don't want to lie to you." Reilly's frown mirrors exactly how he feels. Today was the day of too much birthday cake and difficult questions, it seems.

____

"What makes you so busy?" It's not an accusation, but there's something akin to suspicion in his eyes. Blake averting his gaze definitely doesn't help. He probably looks as guilty as a dog that chewed on their owner's shoes.

____

"I quit the force because I wasn't doing any good. I'm trying to find a better way." He rubs his hair. "It's hit-or-miss so far."

____

"Haven't you gone back into computer repair?" He squints as he tries to recall what Blake shared with him. "Going to try fighting hackers again or something?"

____

"Well...yes and no." Damn it, he feels like he's stuck between a rock and a hard place. But _why?_ His boys were his _world_. He'd do anything for them. But the pull of detective work was like a leash around his neck, yanking him wherever injustice reared its ugly head. It's then and there a cold thought hits him. He could put them all in danger doing this. If he truly throws all caution to the wind and decides to fully strike out on his own, aim for something not unlike what Batman attempted all those years back...yes. He very well could.

____

"...So it's dangerous." Reilly's weary sigh cuts through his thoughts, more accurate than he even knows. "That's what you're...not telling me."

____

"Yeah." He sighs with him. It'd be funny if it weren't so sad. "Yeah, it is." The old Father grows quiet and simply sits there, looking at the room with a million troubles tucked behind his tired eyes. He remembers when the guy had a full head of hair. Now it's wispy and pulling back from his forehead.

____

"You always were strong-willed." He says into the silence. "Knew it from the first moment you stepped into the place with a scowl that would make a bear cower." Blake smiles a little at that. The old man leans forward and folds his hands together. "I'm not trying to make it seem like I...disapprove of your choices. I just..."

____

"...don't want me to lose sight of what's important." Blake finishes when he doesn't continue, uneven grammar notwithstanding. "I worry about that, too."

____

"When you went missing all those months back..." Reilly takes in a shaky breath. "Oh, Blake. I honestly thought I'd never see you again." Damn it all. In the flurry of the past few months he somehow missed just how shaken the guy was. Reilly wasn't the type to cry, at least not in front of others, but he can see his eyes glistening something fierce.

____

' _You may be a tour-de-force, Bane..._ ' He thinks as he takes Reilly's hand and holds it tight. ' _...but you can also be a real bastard._ '

____

"Ha. Goodness." He mutters behind one hand as he wipes his eyes. "Don't mind my complaints, Blake. Stress gets the better of me sometimes."

____

Blake opens his mouth, then winces when his cell rings. He should have put the damn thing on vibrate. Reilly simply shakes his head, resigned to his busybody habits, and rises to his feet. Blake puts a hand on his arm just as he goes toward the door.

____

"I'm thinking about it." He says, resolutely. "I mean it."

____

Reilly almost smiles.

____

"I know."

____

He doesn't call back immediately, instead cracking open the window and letting the wet night breeze wash over him. Over ten years and Blake is still a little staggered by the weight of the place. The truest home he's ever known. He rolls over the day and night's events in his head as he cools off. Reilly's rare display of parental pride. Sasha's misplaced shame. Bane's regret.

____

Stretching himself too thin again. What was he trying to be? A detective? A part-time therapist? A big brother? Conventional wisdom dictated less was more, but he was finding out the hard way he didn't know nearly as much as he thought he did. One thing was for sure: he had to see where the trail led. After all the work he and Harleen put in it would be a waste, a potentially _deadly_ one, to drop it halfway. If it was another dead end, though...maybe he _would_ be better off just staying at the orphanage from now on. Living day-to-day and sheltering the boys from the storm coming.

____

With a gusty sigh he picks up his cell and hits the callback button. Blake hastily lowers the volume on his phone at Harleen's excited shriek.

____

" _You'll never guess what I found, Sherlock!_ "

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little long, a little fluffy, a little foreshadow-y...because the next few chapters are gonna be a _doozy_.
> 
> I feel like I don't say this nearly as often as I should, but thanks so much to _all_ of you reading my little fic. For a rarepair on a movie nearly five years old, I'm amazed at all the incredibly nice comments and critiques I've gotten. They seriously make my day. I'm having a lot of fun writing this and, although I've already got the ending planned out, I'm eager to see how the story will continue to shape itself over the coming weeks.


	36. Lost Cause

It had been the very definition of a balancing act.

Something that would have swooned even the most accomplished of technicians, not a single detail out of place over a tense three days. Where a lesser conglomerate would have rushed to action after discovering the hidden location of a stolen superweapon, favoring a quick strike, they had chosen instead to bide their time. These were defectors from the League Of Shadows, after all, and the League had never settled for less than the absolute best. Despite Abdul indirectly leading them straight to their hideout, an unseen splinter in his company's side, swiftness could see themselves running into more trouble than they would be prepared to handle with their strained numbers.

Barsad and just two others had trailed the man far enough and stealthily enough to fool him into thinking he had escaped mere hours after the encounter. It was then and there they saw just what their ex-partner had been helping plan.

Rubio had pieced together dozens of overnight mercenaries in some makeshift army, as poorly trained as they were extremely dangerous. They were held together by the barest of connections. Lust for power, petty revenge, it was something Barsad knew intimately even with their deeper plans still held under lock and key. These were the very people that were either whipped into shape under his tutelage or rejected outright. Ugly traits and weak wills he learned to spot as soon as possible.

At least, he thought so.

Their good luck was much appreciated. The tracking device had been an unreliable element, at best. The mercenary could have found out halfway on his journey and discarded it. Chosen to end his life rather than reveal the location of his superiors or even led them on a false trail. Anyone wholly devoted to an ideal would do anything for it. Hakim had offered himself all the way back during their kidnapping of Dr. Pavel, a better world well worth the price of his life miles above the earth.

Bane knew his men, however. He was not overly close to them, as he couldn't be, but he _knew_ them. Abdul had established himself early on as a dutiful and consistent member. No project or task was left unfinished under his watchful eye. Perhaps bold Nadir or even stingy Taavi would have exercised caution in a similar spot. Abdul, though... What anyone else would have seen as a snap decision was a well-worn plan constructed on the spot in the masked man's tactical mind. He put the tracking device on him, rather than barring his escape or killing him outright, because he knew it would bear fruit.

Seeing the sloppy yet militant group with his own eyes, he reflected that it was rather regretful that whatever Rubio had offered him outweighed Bane's steady promise. Not only had he been a reliable partner over the years, there was little more shameful than dying for nothing (it was no mystery why Abdul had never emerged back out of that hastily destroyed little camp). The tracking device, though, had mysteriously separated from the group _away_ from Gotham. A clever tactic, to be sure -- throw off any pursuers as far away from the trail until they could recoup. It was possible they used another member as the bait. Perhaps they had stuck the device on an animal and sent it off. Either way, he would never personally know.

It was a least subtle operation. Even from a great distance they were able to trail them to their back-up, something even the most defiant of ex-League members would be loathe to ditch. A rabbit burrow would always have multiple escape routes in the event of a breach. The League Of Shadows didn't get as far as it did without learning from both predator _and_ prey...though it was ever, truly, the former.

So here they stand, gazing at a dingy and unassuming block on Gotham's northernmost borders. The city stands tall mere miles away and the omnipresent heavy weather continues to promise them further cover in a matter of minutes. They're disguised as everyday people to discourage suspicion from outside parties, though they are armed to the teeth and ready to give their lives.

Originally a site for a series of apartment complexes and surrounding small businesses for a new district, it sits unfinished and unoccupied even after months of on-and-off work (Gotham officials were making good use of their time and money, as usual). He could see why it was an ideal location for hidden operations -- rarely patrolled due to its loss of government funds and filled with plenty of (however hazardous) shelter, it was something that could be worked with for a short amount of time until curiosity arose. For what purpose, exactly, they were all still unsure. All they knew is that it involved the reactor. All _he_ knew is that Talia was primarily at fault.

Hopefully, her still-hidden betrayal would finally come to an end.

He looks to his leader observing his surroundings with both hands folded over his collar, observing the empty buildings and static construction equipment like he already commands the property and is merely appreciating its details. Barsad contemplates the death in Bane's eyes as they are refreshed on their task.

"Capture them alive." No elaborate speech. The instructions are simple. "Find the reactor."

Everyone quietly double-checks their weapons and armor. Considering what was at stake they would have normally brought fifty men. Right now they have merely fifteen, including himself and Bane -- with a handful of defectors somewhere nearby none the wiser and a few recent deaths at the hand of Gotham law enforcement, their numbers were shakier than normal. Every other mercenary or spy not maintaining regular routes throughout the city is holding fast both the storm drains and the back-up bunker to protect the volatile, precious elements within. Perhaps he would have to recruit a few more once they were done here. This unsettles him more than it ever has before.

Their efficient and tight network. Formed through years and years of steady, patient, _painful_ work. Barsad inwardly cringes at the thought that there could be _more_ like Abdul among their ranks, even now. Taking after the League better than he could have imagined by biding their time and waiting for the right moment to strike. Would he hire another Rubio without realizing? Was this something that could even be entirely prevented?

"I will try." Barsad attempts to keep the concern out of his voice, but Bane's ears are as sharp as a fox's. He roots him to the spot with his gaze alone, ignoring everyone else spreading out and moving to their positions. North, south, east and west. No corner neglected.

"Speak your mind."

He wants to, but he can't. It's distraction and not why Bane relies on him. Yet the man waits. Not patiently, no. His leader has had a shorter and shorter fuse over the coming weeks.

"Do you fear you will not be able to disarm your former students?" He asks. "Surely you have not forgotten _my_ origins so quickly."

"Their skill rarely surpassed my own." Barsad begins. Bane clicks his tongue.

"But what of your attachment?" His tone is coarse. "Unease wafts off you like smoke, Barsad." The mercenary understands. They were down to the wire and everyone was feeling the livid energy that came with either a great success or great failure. But it doesn't keep his next words from feeling like sand in his mouth.

"...I should have spotted this sooner." Barsad murmurs. "We spoke frequently. He was always a little dissatisfied with his position. There were signs and I should have seen them."

It would be simpler to say he's sorry. It doesn't feel right on his tongue. His mind tries to reason with months and years of information in a sudden regretful overload. Dr. Pavel's complaint of Rubio's nosy, controlling behavior. His very first interview with the eager mercenary, all the way back in that hovel many miles away from Gotham. He knows better than to wonder now, of all times, but handling shame was never one of his strong suits.

The wind keens and sighs through the half-finished buildings. An old spirit mimicking his mood. He can feel more than see Bane's mood lessen and shift. The masked man looks him up and down, then turns back to view the site with a low sigh. He's not angry with him. His failure or his belated apology. It's something else. Something...worse.

"...We move."

Barsad steels himself back into cool indifference and follows.

"Yes."

It's a smooth process. His men remain in near-silent contact as they scour the length of the construction field for guards and traps. One fanatic goes down in their southeastern position mere minutes in. Another finds evidence of a landmine in their northern position and calls backup to disarm it. They're not just warm -- they're right on top of them. It's not long before they're alerted to Rubio's presence further within the complex.

"Filthy backstabber." He hears Saroo mutter.

Like a predator anticipating the kill Bane splits from their small group and heads off on his own, vanishing into the shadow before they've even settled down. It's only a matter of time until the remaining defectors check in and catch onto their missing members. They have to work fast.

There is activity above them. Only a few men are pacing above and scouting for danger, though immediate familiarity is lost through the haze of fog. One of them could be Sahir, missing-in-action only to be glimpsed by Barsad during his tracking of Abdul. Another could be Faris, a newer member with a devastating propensity for the art of poison. He tries to ignore the furious, regretful twisting of his heart at the wasted time put into training them. Fighting alongside them. He had called them brothers, once.

It starts to drizzle. He pulls up his hood and pushes on his goggles. It's tempting to snipe from his vantage point, but he resists. Not only are they too close together, an ensuing shoot-out could compromise the unfinished foundation. The last thing they needed were steel bars and debris raining down on their heads. So they wait for additional signals before advancing. Signing is less conspicuous than whispers, so they gesture intermittently in the safety of shadow.

" _I hope Talia gets better soon._ " Saroo says. " _Bane has not been the same._ "

A few nods of assent. Barsad lifts one hand carefully, adept at communicating without both.

" _We will all fare better once the reactor is back in our hands._ "

It's a plain answer, but an honest one. A younger member, the same age as Salim, moodily eyes the fanatics stalking many feet above before catching Barsad's gaze.

" _We should just kill them all._ " Batoul stresses. His signing has improved. " _There is always a possibility they could escape and hurt others again. Do we take this chance?_ "

Instead of a vocal laugh the rest of the men simply flick two fingers toward their person, a chuckle at the expense of their green brother. Barsad doesn't join in, but he can appreciate the sentiment.

" _Bane much prefers to toy with his foes. Set an example, see._ " He watches Khalil respond from where he hunches with his rifle. His cigar has been pocketed for the moment. " _He didn't even kill Bruce Wayne, remember._ "

Bane had given Barsad a simple task many weeks back -- give the men a simple story. The truth of Talia's betrayal had remained for his ears alone, with even the guards sent to watch over her night and day instructed on a white lie of mental wellness. The stress of maintaining her position as a member of Wayne Enterprises on top of her double-life was starting to leave scars, Barsad told them as they were drilled on routine. She worked herself too hard and too frequently. She needed a break and would not take one, even at Bane's behest, causing her to break down and require confinement as not to hurt herself further.

Gotham's elite were not well-loved. It was more than a little easy to believe that their poisonous company could leave some devastating after-effects (and Barsad had been more than willing to embellish on his past stint in comfortable, soul-sucking middle management). On top of that, many a League member had at least one, if not multiple, forms of mental illness to their name. Post-traumatic stress disorder caused by war, police brutality or both, was the most common. Panic disorder and depression would also make themselves clear from time-to-time. All in all, it was an endearing tale. One that worked well enough for a time. Then the questions began to emerge.

The guards sent to take care of her asked him, one day, why there was yet to be a psychologist assigned. That Bane was terse, even severe, when dealing with his men was another concern muttered over food and guard post -- a practice sparring match had seen more than a few men in confusion when Bane had simply picked up his jacket and left the mat after a session, rather than the usual round of genial criticism he offered for future reference. To say this ongoing secrecy had caused doubts that only grew and grew by the day would be an understatement. Talia may not be their brother forged by the fires of battle, but she was also their leader. No one wanted to feel left out of this sudden, strange loop.

Barsad was trusted on all sides and it was through this trust he continued to learn about the weak links in their foundation. Concerns had been shared with him that Talia had been the mastermind all along, that the reactor disappearing and her sudden spell couldn't be separated. It was an alarmingly canny interpretation he had done his best to damper. Others had been genuinely alarmed at the dip in Bane's usual polite manner and wanted to know what they could do to help. A more touching expression he knew firsthand Bane wouldn't accept.

Balancing acts. These were his specialty. Ever since he was a father taking care of a wife and two children. He would figure this one out, too.

Then the bomb goes off.

One moment they're holding their positions, quiet and waiting. The men are silently laughing over a shared joke. Saroo receives the go-ahead to pick off the sentries and moves into position. Khalil follows, their coordination relying on all shots hitting their marks perfectly.

The next there's a thunderclap of sound and he's hitting the ground and covering his head as everything collapses around him. Barsad has been near explosions before -- the city hall felled by its own 'protectors' was not one he'd soon forget -- and he knows to duck for cover and shield his vitals until the worst is over. A thankfully thick series of wooden beams manages to withhold against the onslaught, only one other man sharing the space with him.

He barely registers the yawning gap in the crossbeams above when his senses fall in place again. The gray sky churns above, suddenly too bright, and illuminates the smoke. One of the fanatics who had been scouting above, an older man he now recognizes as Tor, has hit the ground in three separate places not far from him. Disgust threatens to churn Barsad's stomach as he rises to his feet and pushes up his scarf to better navigate the thick wall of smoke. Did they know they were to lose their lives in such an ignoble way?

A few bruises complain on his back where the beams had shaken under the weight, but nothing is broken. As he picks his way through the smoldering wreckage, he distantly wonders if John Blake's intuition could have helped.

"It came from _above_..." He hears Khalil cough. Their rifle is hefted and ready for battle. "But mines had already been detected..."

Barsad's skin tightens with unease. He immediately tries to contact Bane. The man doesn't answer. It's possible he's run into more fanatics (damn it all, there could be so many more he doesn't even _know_ about) and needs to remain silent. Something tells him that's not the case, even though he wasn't hired for mere intuition and he _knows_ he needs to stay put until the man inevitably returns, remaining defectors in tow.

"Can you stand?" He asks Khalil as they clutch their ear. They seemed to have escaped the worst of the blast, but their equilibrium is shot and a nasty amount of blood is seeping down their neck. Barsad finds Shen picking nails out of his arms, flinging them to the side in his haste. Saroo's leg is broken, though he insists he can still fight. It's a quick few minutes as they collect themselves and assess the damage. No alarms have been raised, but an explosion was impossible to miss.

Batoul has to be picked out of the rubble. A glance at the metal beam in his head tells them all it was a waste of their energy. They can spare only a moment, a League's acknowledgement of three fingers on the throat, before heading toward the cluster of noise in the distance. From the disorganized shouting, a fight is well underway.

"I will _kill_ them." Saroo grimaces as he's hefted up. "I will kill them for Batoul."

"You will take them alive as he said." Barsad reminds him. "Use your sharp eye and cover the others. Something is not right here." He checks his tracking device. Their leader has remained static deeper in the complex for minutes now. Barsad has to warn Bane of the unseen element. That, or back him up wherever he is.

There are a conspicuous lack of extra members as he wanders between what seems like endless blank walls and piles of wood. Four years and, despite using a few himself, he was still unsettled by the destructive power of bombs. How it would lay to waste so much hard work and purpose in a mere blink. Rubio had been more than willing to throw aside responsibility. That he would be too eager to lay to waste what was meant to be a back-up was...

... _telling_.

Barsad suddenly ducks down. A man has rounded a corner to check on the rubble. He doesn't recognize them. This gives him a burst of almost toxic courage and he promptly kneels to one side, out of sight, until he's in perfect distance. A single chokehold reduces him to limp flesh on the ground, the fight he puts up something _piteous_ , more like a civilian than a trained soldier. Where did he find such people? What were they promised?

It's a large room, almost finished, filled with simple amenities that suggest an office or a studio. The rain that puddles on the ground through the holes in the wall give it a mournful look. Bane is standing in the middle, hands folded behind his back as he stares down multiple guns pointed his way. One, two, three...he counts six men, Rubio just barely visible as the last in a cast of shadow.

"It's been a while, Bane." He hears him saying over the _drip-drop_ of rain. "Almost fifteen minutes. Your cavalry is late."

"And yours is woefully underequipped." The masked man murmurs. Barsad can't see his expression, but his head moves from side-to-side just slightly. A ponderous glance. "...Do they know you've sentenced them to death?"

The wooden floors let out a weak _creak_. A few have shifted a little, nervous even in their advantage. The masked man's reputation still precedes him -- whatever Rubio has told these newcomers about him hasn't lined up with reality.

"I really didn't want to do this." Indeed, he appears genuinely remorseful. Something is twisting his face as he steps a little closer. "I joined because it was better than the terrible job and terrible future I had to look forward to before I _died_." He stops in the weak light. "That's what I thought until I saw you kill your own _men_."

"They knew what they signed up for." Bane responds, simply. "All of you did."

"No... _no_ , I don't accept that." Rubio's composure is already cracking. "You're no different from a fucking warlord. You were supposed to be. But you killed Sadiq. You killed Abe and Viktor, all they did was make a simple _mistake_ capturing the Commissioner..." A few mutters of assent follow his words -- it's not the agreement of experienced fighters, but the emboldened support trying to heat up their leader. The air around him feels tense and fragile, as if a single noise louder than a whisper could bring everything crashing down again.

"Their cowardice cost the lives of _three_ men." Bane almost speaks over him. "Instead of standing firm under Gotham's onslaught they crumbled under a selfish fear, fear they were painstakingly trained for, and took with them three worthy souls who could have continued to mold the world into better." He gestures to the men pointing death at his person, an action that makes them stiffen nervously. "You follow in their footsteps."

Doubt is a powerful tool. Barsad had felt its claws dig deeper and deeper over the past few hours and here it was, being wielded as efficiently as any pistol or knife. Another shuffle of feet. A quick glance. Bane's words are planting seeds that could see Rubio losing a card in his deck...and the man knows it. His bravado is cracked. His eyes flick back and forth as he attempts to find more reliable ground.

"I can smell your fear from here." Bane chuckles softly. "There is little stopping you from abandoning this farce, Rubio. Quantity over quality will not win, here. Spare your... _firing squad_...the indignity of your failure." 

Confusion is now plain on the men's faces. They look to their leader, helpless. Rubio grits his teeth. "Just like you spared the life of that worthless cop?"

Barsad's chest clutches at the way Bane's shoulders stiffen. No. _Damn_ it. Rubio has somehow hit a nerve. Even worse, he knows it. His voice grows shrill, undignified, but the confidence in his tone is maddening.

"You don't think we _know_? You talk and talk and _talk_ about taking down corrupt officials, yet you treated this man like a cherished _guest_. You fed him and sheltered him. Let him spar with us like equals. I remember. He was _weak_." The last comment is for the benefit of his men, something that earns a nervous chuckle from one. His words grow faster. Seeking grip. "Talia knows. Talia knows you threw away your ideals. That's why she turned to us. That's why she left you. Why did you do it?" His gaze darts rapid-fire as it searches for insults that will stick. "Was it _worth_ it?"

' _Ignore him, Bane._ ' Barsad wills, desperately. ' _Ignore these taunts._ ' Bane is deathly rigid, the only movement he can make out in the distance the spasm that runs down his arms. His hand flexing as if imagining a thousand deaths in its grasp.

"You have killed people for making innocent, human mistakes. Would you die, Bane?" The tremble of his gun is visible even in this distance. "Would you kill yourself for _your_ mistakes?"

"I will die for the _cause_ , Rubio. My death will live on in the actions of others. You, however, will die for _nothing_." Bane's fingers twitch. "History will forever turn the other cheek."

He's shadow incarnate. A blur of motion and he lunges to the side, has one of the fanatics' arms in a death grip, twisting it behind their back with such veracity that he can almost _feel_ it crack into permanent disuse. Shots ring through the room and Barsad has to duck down to avoid getting a bullet between the eyes. He's back up quickly, though, quick enough to see Bane using the man as a shield as he fires at the defectors in turn.

Even in the hazy space between seconds the conflict in the others is plain to see. One of the men fires at Bane, clipping through their partner's shoulder and causing them to howl, only for another to shout out in alarm. A few more flashes, seconds later and the only one left standing is Bane and Rubio. The fanatic in his grasp is already bleeding out, the unluckiest in the room, and he's tossed onto the ground like waste to join his brethren. Their twitching chests are the only hint of the life still inside them.

"... _Freak._ " Rubio pants. "Inhuman _freak._ "

"Come, now." Bane cocks the gun. Blood drips from a wound on his arm. "That just hurts my feelings, Rubio."

"You think that's all I have, Bane?" He doesn't even check the status of his men, not even the quickest glance, his eyes firmly trained on the masked man. "You're not this foolish. There are more."

"Then there will be less." His voice is lilting. "Cowards don't risk their necks." Soothing. "Neither will you."

Rubio could be referring to more men. He could also be referring to more bombs. There must be more, somewhere. Their sensors had picked up vague elements outside the more obvious landmines, but they're faint. Faint because they're distant or faint because they're...? Dawning horror spreads through his body like a chill.

"It's over, Rubio."

He steps out from his hiding place. Bane glances sideways at him, but otherwise doesn't move a muscle. Rubio, however, almost looks relieved.

"Barsad." He says, breathless. "Brother."

"You are no brother of mine." He spits. Rubio's expression doesn't change, still something plaintive, reaching.

"You know better than anyone what he's capable of. Think of all the people _he_ took you away from. Think of your family."

"I left my family, Rubio." He had to resist the righteous anger that follows the man's miserable wit. "Just as you left yours." He turns to Bane. "They carry explosives inside them." He ignores Rubio's attempts to still speak and adjusts his goggles with one hand. "This is how they slipped past our sensors and ambushed us. Two injured and one lost." His voice deepens with rage. "I imagine the sentries had been rather desperate to stop our advance."

Bane's eyes narrow in realization, then widen viciously. Whether or not he even suspected is unclear. Rubio blanches and he now knows why the man sounded so confident. His trump card was something even the _original_ League had viewed as extreme.

He thinks to the man's pale sense of honor, all the way back in the mountains. "For old time's sake...give up this foolish chase." He moves closer to Bane, far enough that they could both dive through one of the holes and make a quick exit should Rubio decide to detonate himself. "Or you will fall where you stand."

The rain picks up outside and inside, drumming a mournful rhythm throughout the unfinished complex. It's a terse, quiet moment as the mercenary debates his shrinking options. He finally looks to the men twitching and moaning on the floor.

Barsad bristles when the man suddenly laughs. He spares a quick glance to Bane. His eyes are dark. Suspicious.

"You think that's _it?_ " He lowers his pistol. "I may _spit_ on your League, but I was still a student." He pulls up his sleeve. "There is always _another_ plan."

Barsad see's Bane's eyes widen in recognition.

"...It's done." Rubio says as he presses something against his arm. "Go get her."

Barsad fires -- to disable, even then, not to kill -- but it doesn't stop the left side of the room bursting into flame. Right where Bane is standing. Then another. Then another. Then _another_. Everything is noise and flame and shuddering earth.

" _Move ba-_ "

Time blurs. Something hits him and sends him to he floor. His ears howl with abuse, a cacophony that tries to pry his brain apart with merciless fingers. He's rolling on the ground, trying to get away from the fire, trying to put it _out_. Smoking flesh, sour and horrible, fills the entire space and turns it into hell.

The goggles keep the smoke from clinging to his eyes, meaning he can easily see Bane vanish under a flood of rubble even as he fights to remain something more than a sudden smear of organs. Somehow his two-way has survived the blast. He presses the button instinctively. An alert they're in danger. Khalil's voice snaps and crackles back at him. A truck is making its way out of the site. The reactor could be inside, he's saying. They're going to pursue. They need an update on their status. Barsad's head is spinning too hard to speak.

Somehow he pushes himself through the debris, even as everything is still crumbling, _still_ trying to bury them under. His silver and black mask is a beacon that glints and leads him through the choking gray haze. He reaches through and down and under to find him. Feels him struggling under the weight of fallen sheetrock and metal beams.

"Leave me." Bane wheezes. Blood oozes the front of the mask. " _Get the reactor._ "

With a heave he pushes a layer of drywall off him. He tries for another, only to then register the agony lancing up his shoulders and neck. There's an injury. He doesn't know how bad. It's been years since he's panicked and it's only through the sudden rush of strength it gives him is he able to give it meaning. He can make out flesh mingling mercilessly with the man's shredded, smoldering jacket.

"This is an _order_." Red spittle flicks the ground in front of him. "They are coming for her. Gotham is in danger. _Go!_ "

Solutions and problems present themselves as snaps and crackles of electricity. They have Dr. Pavel. They have Talia. They are well-guarded. The reactor is a specialized form of nuclear energy understood by a lofty and educated few. Should they get away now they still are armed with little more than a particularly large paperweight. The others are in pursuit. Some are injured. Batoul is dead. Rubio has vanished. Bane...

" _Barsad...!_ "

Bane _is_ the League Of Shadows.

Another beam clatters to the ground. Another sheet slides to the side. Then he's free. The man tries to get up on his own, only to attempt to push him away furiously. Barsad resists and pulls Bane's arm around his shoulders, standing up into the fire that swirls around them. His radio equipment is fried. He has to trust the rest will know what to do.

Cold air rushes in-between walls of unbearable heat. The outside drizzle is valiant, almost heavy now, but it isn't nearly enough to dampen the fire licking its way up the wooden foundation. A distant clatter interrupts his step. Something else _pops_ beside him. He trudges on.

The only sound that can be heard over the crackle of flame is the masked man cursing his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. This chapter gave me a little trouble. I'm glad to say the next few are mostly complete and not nearly as ornery. When I take longer than usual to update, it's either a busy work week or perfectionist loop to blame. ...Usually both!
> 
>  **Also:** I added an important exchange between Gordon and Blake in Chapter 28 that I _totally_ forgot to put in the first time. I waffled and waffled about whether or not to go back in and edit, but it didn't feel right otherwise. Not going to make a habit of doing this, though!


	37. Don't Take It For Granted

"What are you _doing?!_ "

Too many voices. He can't even make out his own. He's scrabbling backwards like a terrified animal, his eyes glued to the metal bat glinting maliciously above his head, hands scraping on the cold ground in desperation for something, _anything_ , to stave off the inevitable. Gravel. Dirt. Grass. Glass. She's laughing like someone possessed. Like the fact she's about to murder him in cold blood is the best joke she's heard all week.

"You should've killed me when you had the chance, _puddin'!_ "

  
_three hours earlier_

Back door. Locked. Anti-virus software. Installed. Dying plant. Still watered.

John Blake ticks off every little chore and safety measure more eagerly than he would've otherwise. It made sense. Everyday mundanities, something he originally took for granted, had transformed into the therapy he used when an actual counselor and a few weeks' of scheduled time were still out of his reach. More and more, simple actions like doing dishes or kicking back with a book was transforming into more of a fantasy than even the wildest images flashing on the latest action flick. Shit, he even swept his _porch_ yesterday. Perspective, like usual, was hellbent on pinching his cheeks.

He'd even taken time out of his week to update his will, something that had floated to the bottom of the proverbial pool in terms of immediate concerns. It had only taken a few tweaks (namely regarding Trevor should she ever be found and the few extra belongings he had since brought in). Anything and everything (organs included) had been destined for St. Swithin's and any other orphanages in need since he turned eighteen. For some reason he wasn't as depressed talking to the attorney as he thought he would be. If anything he felt more resolute than ever -- that when he goes down, it was going to at least be for everybody's benefit.

Hopefully.

Harleen had hit an alarming breakthrough a few days back, something that he (probably rudely, in retrospect) asked her to double-check again and again through sheer disbelief. She found something both incredibly likely and incredibly _strange_ while scouting for incriminating behavior downtown -- some sort of small metal ball filled with holes, compact enough to fit in the average pocket yet complex enough to spread gas around for yards. Maybe even _miles_. When he'd asked how she found out it was the toxin, he couldn't exactly say he was surprised when she said she'd just 'whiffed it'.

" _Get it?!_ " She'd exclaimed over the phone. " _Like a whiffle ball?_ "

Seeing it in person, he couldn't say she was _too_ far off.

The person she'd pried it off of had been pretty high themselves, but according to Harleen 'parsing out crazy talk is par for the course'. She'd given the holder a 'little scare' (much to his chagrin she deigned not to go into the details) and got quite a bit of information on who gave them the contraption and _why_ they went along with it. Apparently the victim (as well as a handful of others) had been led into thinking it was a harmless little experiment. A form of technology being pioneered to reduce the smog Gotham was infamously known for. Since they were being paid not-insubstantial amounts of cash, whether or not they _actually_ bought this tall tale was anyone's guess. Needless to say, they had their lead and they were going to take it.

They were off to The Narrows.

Blake takes an extra moment to pull himself together in his cramped bathroom, finger-combing his now-shaggier hair and rubbing a hand up and down the stubble again graying his chin. He looks...older. Still tired. Less baby-faced, if that was a plus, though Bane seemed to find him attractive irregardless of what he did (or didn't do) with his appearance. Instinctively he turns and scrutinizes the shape of his ass in the more slimming dark jeans he chose over his usual gray pair. Yeah. Still good. He feels the muscles along his arms, along his stomach. Could still use a little work.

He's had to trade out his late birthday present in favor of one of his older coats, not wanting to wear it out even worse -- he noticed the already fraying hem was starting to take a beating and the right pit was pulling apart enough to show the undershirt. Plucking at the black flight jacket that hugs his torso a little tighter than he'd like (something he wore back at the dating scene, a vague and uncomfortable memory), he makes a mental note to ask Bane to give him a few pointers on sewing.

It's a decent enough afternoon, the sun winking sweetly through patches of cloud the moment he steps outside. Coats of frost barely dust the ground and metal poles he walks by. Maybe now flowers would actually start to bloom. He asks around if anybody's seen Trevor (still nothing), offers his thoughts to Chin-Mae (doing better) and makes sure to give the orphanage a call to check in on the boys before leaving in full.

Reilly updates him, as best he can with the boys wrestling for turns on the phone. Finn is studying for his driver's license, he's happy to find out. Should the test go well he could be driving his car in just two weeks. The kid was just shy of aging out and, as much as it pained Blake like an emotional Charlie's Horse, he and Reilly had to affectionately nudge him out of the nest. It seemed his hard work was paying off. Both of theirs'.

Amir has been contacted for another art show, a kid's competition with a hefty grant as the prize, though he insists his portfolio isn't ready and needs a second eye -- to his surprise, he asks if Behnam could look it over for him next time he visits. He remembers Bane talking to the kid during Joel's party and catching his attention. The man was wickedly cultured. It was a wonder he could crush windpipes as easily as lay him low with a few clever moves in chess. He can't promise Amir anything, but he assures him he'll let him know.

Joel's mother has visited twice since his birthday, something that means the world to the kid, and he hasn't had a single fit in a _week_. A milestone according to his counselors. These little updates make his heart swell with so much pride it almost hurts. His boys remind him why he fights when everything threatens to make him forget.

"You got any tips on how to revive a dead plant?" He asks Reilly before he has to leave.

" _Just give it a little love._ " He responds over the boys' hubbub. " _Plants are living beings just like us, you know. They can't thrive on loneliness._ "

"You're such a sap, Reilly." He chuckles. It's as big of a compliment as he's ever given. "I'll do that."

He relaxes into his coat when he takes the train, even as people jostle him from side-to-side in their bid to transfer or claim space. Even the humdrum of public transport feels different than usual. Harleen's chosen Blue Moon for their meeting, one of the more homely diners that's managed to survive downtown demolition and remodeling. It's not particularly crowded, inside _or_ out, but he doesn't feel anything could have made him miss the petite woman leaning back against the side of the cafe with the silliest pair of earrings he's ever seen.

"Well, well, well. If it ain't my new partner-in-crime." She pops a bright pink cube into her mouth as he jogs up to her. "You ready to kick ass and take names, Sherlock?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." He responds with a shrug. "Which I've learned is usually not enough."

"That's pretty optimistic! By Gotham standards, anyway." She holds out a small box. "Gum?"

They head past the diner, through the narrow alley and out into the deserted parking lot in the back. Once they're sure they're alone she reaches into her coat and hands him a gas mask, one just a touch nicer than the store-bought model he'd used in the Acres. He'd brought along his standard pistol, sleeping darts and boot-knife, ready for things to get ugly and in a heartbeat. Considering _his_ luck, it would. He also kept a handful of matches and a spray can on his person, though it'd be difficult to encourage an open flame and not look a little weird. The toxin didn't like fire, though, so he'd figure something out.

He gives her a once-over as he wraps the mask around his face and tucks it beneath his scarf. Her gaudy hair is nestled under the fuzzy hood of her jacket and the splashy make-up is toned down, if only barely. She _almost_ looks like an everyday Gothamite. If they were an eccentric clubber with an addiction to cheap bubblegum, that is.

"...Dice earrings?" He says with a cocked brow. "For a covert operation?"

"Don't deny me the little pleasures of life, Sherlock." She smirks. "Cute jacket."

They take a taxi just far out enough to save them time, but get off a little farther to give them wiggle room in case they're being followed. This means they still have to cross the bridge onto the Narrows, but neither of them are particularly worried about being jumped. Indeed, their confident stances must translate into swagger because even the apparent regulars haunting the passage leading into the dilapidated neighborhood shuffle off like loose leaf paper at the sight of them.

"I got Tatsu on speed-dial in case we gotta blast." She reminds him as they walk over the rushing rapids. "Worrywart's probably right 'round the corner with binoculars, anyway."

"Good." He gestures to his hip. "If we need to remove witnesses I have sleep darts. Better safe than sorry."

"I think I'll try the more old-fashioned approach." She says, patting her bat. He frowns as they near the end of the bridge and officially cross into the next neighborhood.

The Narrows has been seen as a lost cause for decades. Even the Bowery could boast a more organized crime syndicate. Without the grudging respect 'bestowed' on Old Gotham's historical architecture or nearby East End's desperate grip on working-class culture, it stood out as a place Gothamites considered a little too dangerous or just plain pointless. The vicious circle of poor people and few options meant petty to severe crime was rampant -- little more than a neglected chore for local law enforcement. Despite the Gotham river cutting through it and providing a good chunk of the city's fish output, the place's only claim to fame was being a bad neighborhood that held one of the worst elements the city would _ever_ be known for: Arkham Asylum.

He had originally requested to be assigned here during his first few months in the force. Despite his abnormally high marks in nearly every area (even Foley had a hard time shitting all over his good name when he first started out), they had refrained -- 'too dangerous', 'who cares', 'you have better things to do'. He wonders now if it was because he might have done some actual good. The sinking feeling in his chest at all that hard work lost has to be wrestled down, though it's not as hard as it used to be. He was doing actual good _now_. Fuck them.

"Did you see anything...strange when you breathed in the toxin?" He asks as they pass an abandoned house with a gaping hole in the roof. "Hallucinations or memories?" A murder of crows sit and preen along the rim like some witch's ritual. Judging by the weak trickle of smoke drifting out into the open, it's been occupied.

"Strange ain't how I'd put it." She kicks at a stick on the ground. "More like hellish."

"Yeah." Something startles the crows and makes them rise like a dark cloud into the air. "Sounds about right."

When he was a kid he fantasized about sneaking off to The Narrows and fighting crime. It was a dare many orphan boys would push onto their fellows when peer pressure was more entertaining than shooting bottle cans or etching crude language into car doors. Called the 'Narrow Run', it involved running across the signature bridge stretching over the icy river, touching the sign that heralded a visitor's arrival and running back across. Reilly hated this dare and made it very clear what _any_ boy's punishment would be if they, well. Even dared. Blake had given it a shot because he was new and wasn't yet convinced Swithin's was an actual home.

He had lost his privileges for three solid weeks. Blake didn't have a lot of friends, but it earned him something like respect in the eyes of the other boys when he crossed the bridge and scribbled his name all over the welcoming sign in black marker. Much to Reilly's surprise, and his own, he hadn't been all that mad about his punishment. Young Blake had just been glad an adult gave a crap about him for once.

"Robin The So Great And Powerful?" Harleen reads aloud when they walk past the rusty billboard. The ink is smudged and faded, but still legible.

"Sounds like a real tough guy." He chuckles.

Arkham Asylum is just across the field. He glances at Harleen, hands shoved in her pockets and cheerfully kicking stones out of their path. Would she feel any nostalgia for the place? Had she even been assigned to the original establishment? The asylum had been sneakily relocated over the years. The building was little more than an heirloom now. He can just make it out its signature gothic architecture, almost dignified even surrounded by spidery-bare trees and yellow grass. He doesn't sightsee too much, though. They've been watched since they've arrived.

Harleen's a natural at smalltalk and they shoot the shit about anything and everything to seem casual to the average eye (though he doesn't miss the way she dodges the occasional pointed question). The place is deceptively bare, but he can always catch movement out of the corner of his eye. More people trying to see if they're an easy mark. Nothing new. He's more impressed by how easily she falls into the rhythm of discouraging outside attention, though that appreciation is soon squandered by the uncomfortable questions of what she did to _earn_ such pragmatism.

' _Come on, Blake._ ' He reminds himself. ' _Don't get too suspicious. She's been a huge help._ '

"So...a bat?" He says when the faint, howling wind makes for a poor conversational substitute. Harleen attempts to stuff her hair back into her hood. The curls poke out anyway.

"Used to have a sledgehammer." A toothy grin. " _Big_ one, too."

"Yeah?" He asks with a raise of his brow. "What happened to it?"

"Acres crew asked me if they could use it to patch holes." She responds with a sigh. Blake can't help but laugh. He couldn't lie. She was funny.

"You don't pull any punches, do you?"

"You makin' fun of Goodnight?"

"Actually...it's really practical." He admits. "A gun can run out of bullets and a knife can cut its user as easily as the opponent. There's something really flexible about a bat. I've thought about using something similar in hand-to-hand combat." It's hard not to feel a little nerdy as he adds, "A pole or a staff, maybe."

The complex grows nearer. An area her impromptu confidant was supposedly from. He starts analyzing it from head-to-toe. The crooked (and likely broken) front gate. The conspicuous lack of cars in the front. It takes him a moment to realize Harleen is still speaking.

"...lotta different tricks you gotta have up your sleeve to deal with _this_ sorta Gotham. Everyone's gotta have the latest stuff what with all the raids goin' on. You know, I noticed you went upstairs at the city hall." She says, the crunch of gravel beneath their shoes the only other sound aside from what sounds like a train in the distance. "Did you actually meet Gotham's big bad wolf?"

"More or less." He feels a warm pang in his chest at the mention.

_"Where will you go from here, John?"_

_He had woken up to Bane in his natural habitat. Morning grogginess was clearly as foreign a concept as shyness to the guy. Already dressed head-to-toe in his biker get-up, sans the gloves, he sat with his back to him in the early morning hours shaving. He couldn't recall ever seeing so much as a single hair on the man's head, but whatever he was doing made sure his scalp gleamed nearly as much as his helmet. It was less that, though, than the fact his mask was off and set to the side._

_The sight was just a little out-of-place, like seeing a car driving with a missing tire or a closed bud in summer. The deep marks wrapping around the nape of his neck suggested he, indeed, wore it as much as he suspected. He'd stared and stared from where he lay bundled in the blankets, hoping for a glimpse of his face, only to wind up thoroughly disappointed when Bane merely mopped off excess shaving cream with a rag, tossed it onto the table and strapped the mask back on. Standing up and grabbing his coat, he gave Blake a knowing look before hunching out of the tent._

_Blake had rather hurriedly thrown on his clothes at that. It had been startlingly sunny when he followed him outside, the fog he was used to hardly more than thin wisps in the distance. Although the warmth couldn't reach them, not that early, a rare hot day was well on its way._

_"I'll find Scarecrow or his copycat and get to the bottom of all this." He responds, stuffing his hands in his pockets and squinting up at him through the glare. He was pleasantly sore, inside and out, and knew the aches would have to keep him company until they could rendezvous next. "At least, that's the goal. We're still looking for more solid leads. I've got an...acquaintance helping me out, so I'll at least have some back-up should anything go sour. We've been going back and forth trying to put together where he's staying and what kind of opposition we should expect."_

_"If there is any expect it to be an outside force." Bane responds practically. "Jonathan Crane was not known for being a physical fighter."_

_Blake nods attentively. Bane momentarily turns around to confer with Barsad and two others in Russian. He stares at his broad back, aching to reach out and do something obnoxiously mundane. Kiss him on the cheek and wish him a happy day at work? He pushes down the corny thought instead and takes a small slice of joy in the difference he sees in Bane's eyes when the man turns back to him. It wasn't how he looked at everything else, all piercing and frank. Not entirely._

_"What will you do when you find them?" He asks, breath puffing a bright white with every other word. Blake tries not to smile at the quiet confidence Bane is instilling in him. When, not if._

_"Punch 'em in the face." Bane nods rather seriously at this, making him choke back a laugh. He gets a moody glance from one of the men checking the stock in one of the vans -- clearly he wasn't the only morning person here. "Then lock them up so they won't be able to pull that shit again." That makes Bane raise his eyebrows and, after another glance at one of the mercenary's tablets, he gives him one of his more familiar scrutinizing looks, the one that makes him feel like he's being scanned from the inside out._

_"Where will you contain the offending party?" He asks, as sensibly as if they were discussing grocery store discounts and they had to budget dinner._

__

_"My acquaintance says the group she's with is considering taking, uh..." He raises a shoulder in a half-shrug to show he's still murky on the details. "...matters into their own hands."_

__

_"Oh?" He seems unperturbed. Maybe a little pleased. "They sound quite well-prepared."_

__

_Does he tell him he's working with the woman formerly known as Harley Quinn? Does he even bother finding anything weird at this point? Salim answers that question for him by pulling up with a motorcycle so quickly Blake nearly dives out of the way to avoid getting hit. The sniper clearly thinks it's a great joke, honking laughter as he leans over the seat. Bane does not. Salim has to duck his head in apology as the masked man gives him a severe once-over, then turns back to Blake._

__

_"What about you?" Blake asks when he's given the mercenary a friendly curse at his expense. Unlike Bane's admonishment, though, his doesn't stick -- he gets a cheeky smile once his boss' back is turned._

__

_"We have a lead on the reactor. One that should prove...fruitful." He doesn't like the man's tone, even as he can't quite figure out why. "One of our defectors has given us a trail of breadcrumbs to follow." Maybe it was unfair or unreasonable, but he's already eager to come back into him again. Pull the softer, more tender Bane out where only he can see._

__

_"You know, Joel's birthday is in a few days. Three, to be exact." He says with a smile. A little lower so the others couldn't hear. "If you wanted to drop by and say hi on your break."_

__

_Bane had nodded vaguely and handed him a small pouch. He had to school his face into one of attentiveness to cover up his disappointment. "Sleeping agents. Use them as you see fit. Be warned they last one to three hours at a time and should be discouraged on the elderly." He nods when Blake takes them and pockets them. "I know you favor...more peaceful solutions."_

__

_Salim motions at him. It's time to go. He settles onto the motorbike, even as his body tugs at him with the desire for another action entirely. "Be careful out there...okay?" A few of the mercenaries look at him like he's crazy. Bane simply nods._

__

_"Watch yourself, John Blake." The crow's feet around his eyes wrinkle in a smile. "The fire rises."_

__

"Earth to _Watson!_ "

__

He jerks to attention. They've arrived. The apartment complex yawns before them. Like most architecture near Old Gotham it's an antique, all aged brick and crumbling foundations. _Unlike_ Old Gotham, however, it looks a _lot_ worse for the wear. There's clearly no occasional restoration project or regular maintenance. Paint peels in a few too many places and even the ivy crawling up the black front gate is withered and brown. He turns to see Harleen leaning forward and studying his face, eyes as bold as a laser.

__

"You went to another planet for a second." She scoffs. "I'm not _that_ boring, am I?"

__

"Sorry." He apologizes, not without feeling. "A lot on my mind."

__

"I can relate to that." She nods. "...So...?"

__

"Uh...I totally missed the question." He says, eager to get away from that gaze and deflect. Harleen shrugs lightly.

__

"Just wanted to know if he really _is_ that ripped or if it's just the leather." Thank goodness the mask hides most of his face. It doesn't seem to do him any good, anyway, because she grins and claps him on the back.

__

"I'm _kiddin'_. Don't be too starstruck, doll. Gotham's tough guys sing some pretty impressive showtunes, but in the end they all harmonize the same note. No matter how nice they sound on the surface."

__

"Nice metaphor." He admits. She beams at the compliment. "Bane's not _that_ bad a singer, though."

__

"Nah, he ain't bad. Popped off that son of a bitch trying to turn Gotham into Metropolis 2.0. Also got rid of Daggett. _Hated_ that guy." She glances slyly at him. "Makes it easy to trust, yeah?"

__

Little doubtful thoughts flit in his mind. He pushes them away. It's his turn to ask questions. "Isn't Toxic Acres a sort of haven for Bane supporters, though? Sure saw a lot of the people there cosplaying him." He coughs into his hand. "With varying degrees of success."

__

She holds up a finely manicured nail. " _Protesters_. 'They've all got their own methods, but the one thing that connects us is a desire for a better Gotham.'" She blows out a laugh at Blake's expression. "That's how Tatsu said it, anyway. A lot of people there like Bane, sure. Some are just there for the show. Lotsa good folks makin' up the crew. Here's hopin' Bane deserves them."

__

"Actions speak louder than words." He can't help an affectionate sting of pride running through him. "Though he's pretty good with the latter."

__

"That's what worries me." She's suddenly, startlingly serious. "He's _too_ good." He's about to ask her to elaborate when she pulls out a lock pick. Blake holds up a hand.

__

"Woah, wait. There might be a less suspicious way to do this." He starts. "Why not pretend we're here to have some of what they're selling?"

__

Harleen frowns. "How's that gonna be better than just slippin' in through the back?"

__

"We still don't know what we're up against. We only just found out the technology he's using to spread the toxin. What other schemes is he running here? How far does his influence go?" He holds up his hand again, this time more placatingly as she looks more impatient than curious. "I want to make sure we have our bases covered."

__

"Keep forgettin' you're a detective." She sighs as she stands and looks at her pick. "Guess I'll have to practice elsewhere."

__

"Maybe not." He offers. "If we are onto something...anything secret, that is...we might have to do some prying, anyway."

__

"Then do you want to do the interrogatin', doll? If we run into the reigning champ himself." She mutters to the side as one of the residents passes them by with a laundry basket under one arm -- aside from a curious look they don't stop what they're doing. "Though you'll have to refresh me on the difference between a good cop and a bad cop routine."

__

"Oh, it's pretty easy." He responds under his breath. "The bad cop roughs up the subject and the good cop stands by and lets them do it."

__

They're lucky it's a quiet part of the day. There aren't too many people around, but that could just mean they're inside. The front gate is clearly just for show, as they're able to simply open it and walk down the brick walkway to the front door. An elderly woman, bundled head-to-toe in scarves and layers, seems to be dozing off inside the foyer. The air inside smells even mustier than outside. He's doubly-glad he's wearing a mask.

__

A shriek pierces the air, high and sharp, making them both jump like a pair of startled cats. It sounds like it comes from somewhere upstairs. The old woman doesn't react, shifting a little and even starting to snore. Not even Harleen shaking her by one shoulder seems to jog her from her state.

__

"There goes my ear drums." Harleen winces, giving up and rubbing a finger in her ear.

__

"There goes my blood pressure." Blake breathes, hand on his chest.

__

"Won't be getting any tall tales out of this one." Harleen peers up the stairs. "We'll have to find another volunteer."

__

Nothing about the place feels right. St. Swithin's may be old and crumbling, but there was a certain warmth felt by everyone, resident and stranger alike. Even his apartment complex had its own charm (thanks, plant), helped especially by his friendly neighbors. Studying the way his skin prickles as much as he studies the peeling carpet and still air, this place felt less like an everyday residence and more like that cell he stayed in not too long ago.

__

He jumps _again_ when a hand presses into his shoulder.

__

"Harleen, don't _do_ tha-" He starts, only to pause at the pale face staring back at him. "...Oh. Hello." The manager? A resident? He looks at her dirty sandals and torn nails. Raccoon eyes that make her look much older than she is. Signs of an addict, as plain as a picture.

__

"Need some help?" The woman asks, too quickly.

__

"Yeah, actually. We're visiting..." Blake starts, glancing to Harleen to help him out. Thankfully, the stranger seems to be processing everything at a thousand miles per hour.

__

"You here for Murphy?" She says, still quick, a little jittery.

__

"We're Charles' friends." Harleen answers quickly. Charles must be the guy she questioned. His suspicion proves right when the woman's eyes dawn in recognition.

__

"Well, I wouldn't call us friends." Harleen hooks an arm around her shoulders. "Just a good guy lookin' to hook a pretty girl and a pretty guy up." She leans forward conspiratorially. "Think you could point us in the right direction?"

__

The woman's demeanor shifts. Her eyes flick back and forth between them, some poorly concealed inner debate. She picks at her nails and works at words not quite making it to her lips. They're on the right track, but she could squirrel up and cut off the trail then and there if they're not careful.

__

"He doesn't like strangers..." She starts. "...but he's always looking for new patients. He saw me the other day, actually. Really helped. Did Lee tell you about the side-effects? It's not...it's not for everyone..."

__

Harleen gives him an encouraging look. Blake doesn't waste the chance.

__

"I saw my mother." He says, holding the shaky woman's gaze. "...I'd like to see her again, you know?" Harleen's eyes widen over her shoulder. The resident, however, relaxes visibly and takes his hands in hers. Suddenly calm. He's not crazy about the constant breach of personal space, but he wills himself to play along.

__

"Oh. _Oh._ You're in good hands, yes. The good doctor takes care of us like that. Just like that. You'll see your mother again, sweetie." She pats his hand. "As many times as you want. Here, let me show you his office. Tell him Aisha sent you."

__

Harleen's brows furrow a little as they follow her away from the stairs and down the hallway. A silent question if he's okay. He shakes his head.

__

The complex is cramped, the air foggy with what could be dust or smoke or something much worse. Everything's yellowing. Everything creaks. He's sure he saw something scurry after them before vanishing. It's nothing he didn't know from his childhood. It's something else that has him feeling itchy, pieces drifting uncontrollably together like magnets and threatening to form an uncomfortable picture. If Scarecrow really was here...well. He may have picked the perfect place.

__

They reach a door. 'C. Murphy', it says. Harleen sneers behind her mask.

__

"It seems he's not in right now." Aisha says with a frown, knocking again for good measure. "Maybe you two could wait here?" She looks at Blake. "Where do you live? Across the bridge? You could stay in the hall."

__

Harleen mouths over her shoulder where she can't see. He has no clue what she's saying, but it probably has something to do with lockpicking. She rolls her eyes when he gives her a clueless shrug and she pounds a fist into her hand. _Ah._ He shakes his head fiercely. He can't see her mouth, but he knows she's pouting.

__

"Sure. We'll wait here. Thanks for showing us around." Blake says, only for his chest to sink when Aisha takes his hands again.

__

"I'll wait with you." She says, brightly. "I need to ask him for a refill, anyway."

__

Damn it all. He doesn't want to have to knock her out. Harleen, not subtle even now, repeats the motion with a fervent eyebrow. Would it be worth using a sleepdart? The woman looked pretty high and he had no idea how it would interact with her system. He _thinks_ she's on the younger side, just tired and worn out and drugged up, but it could be the opposite. Doubt is making him jittery as she continues to ramble, holding onto him like a lifeline.

__

"You'll be very thirsty after using it." She laughs. "I piss five times a day now because of all the water I'm drinking. He said it's just a side-effect, he plans on-"

__

"Listen, I think we'll just wait here on our own. It's no big deal-"

__

"You don't have to be embarrassed." He stares at her, trying to follow her train of thought. "He even has a support group, everyone goes. We talk about our problems, what we see, it's best not to go alone. The work is...it's not secret, it's just experimental. You'll have to sign some papers. I'll let him know-"

__

_Thud_. Blake barely catches her as she goes rigid as a board and falls forward. Harleen has the butt of her bat in the air.

__

"Sheesh. They tell _me_ I talk too much."

__

"What the _hell_ , Harleen?" He hisses as the woman slowly but surely goes unconscious from the blow to the head. "You didn't have to _hit_ her!"

__

"From the looks of it you were just gonna let her talk your ear off 'til the building fell." She responds indignantly. "We don't got _all_ day."

__

"I was debating the merit of using sleep darts." Blake growls. "You know, what I said I brought not an _hour_ ago?"

__

"What, and wait until someone else walked in? You can't use sleep darts on the whole complex." She's already picking the lock, bat strung again on her back. "That's your problem, Sherlock. You overthink things."

__

"I'm trying to be a detective." He looks for a place to set her down. "That's kind of the _point_."

__

Carefully he lays Aisha further down the hallway, propping her up against the wall not unlike the elderly lady back in the foyer. Hopefully she'd look like she just took too much. The added elevation could also lessen the swelling. The wound doesn't look serious, but considering just how shit poor the place was he didn't know if she could get treatment for it. Damn it all. Once they got what they needed he was going to pull Harleen aside and give her a talk on restraint. A _click_.

__

The door is open.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! One of the promotional materials for the Dark Knight Rises is a 'sneak peek' at John Blake's performance review. There were a few interesting details in there, like 'respect from employees' and 'working part of a team' being his lowest scores while honesty and responsibility are his highest.
> 
> We _all_ know he's a straight-A student in the Hothead Department, though!


	38. Nowhere Left To Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for suicide mention and alcoholism.

Harleen beckons with a quick hand before slipping inside. Blake glances behind him and hesitates, peering inside the room and scouring the ceiling and walls for signs of cameras or traps, but it looks almost like any other space in the building. Cheap and bare, the tidy furniture and generic art on the walls are the only elements that define it as an office. He sees a shrink couch in the far corner, surrounded by dying plants, and a mug filled with what smells like stale coffee on a plastic desk.

"Not much for decorating, is he." Harleen snorts as they feel their way around. "Nobody around to explain color theory for 'im?"

"You'd think a psychologist would at least have a welcome mat." Blake scoffs in response. "Harleen." He suddenly whispers. "Look here."

Right under the couch. He can just make out the indentation in the carpet. An attic door, by the looks of it. He'd walked in enough cheap apartments to feel something was off about the floor -- dead mouse, moldy foundation, the list was endless -- and the moment he stepped past it his feet sank in uncomfortably.

"Good eye." She says with a low whistle. "We won't have to turn the place upside down now."

"Your bat can't solve every problem." He mutters. She deigns to ignore him as she kneels, peels back a tiny square of carpet and starts picking the lock.

Not even a minute and the door is creaking open. She was damn good at this. Blake leans forward with her and peeks down. He's not sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. As far as he can tell it's clean and tidy, noticeably bare of cobwebs, dust and just about anything that would characterize a cellar. Any more information he could get is swallowed in the dark.

"One of us should stay out here in case he comes back." He squints further. "I can go down."

"I ain't afraid of rats." She snickers. "I'm partnerin' with you, ain't I?" He rolls his eyes and leans his head down. "That was a compliment, by the way." She whispers good-naturedly."

"You're making me blush." He responds dryly. "All right, let's wait by the door and make sure-"

"Nah, lemme go in."

"Wait, what?"

"You heard me." She scoots forward and swings both legs down into the narrow space. "I'll check if there's anything nasty waitin' for us."

He pushes greasy palms down his jeans as she vanishes into the dark. Everything doesn't just feel wrong. It feels like something's waiting to _blow_. Harleen doesn't seem to share his oversensitive stomach, landing on something wooden with a muffled _thud_ and flicking her phone out. It's not a long trip, hardly more than a particularly clean tunnel, but it feels like a lifetime as his head struggles to catch up with his intuition. She starts to pick at something and he's pawing at his pistol. Waiting.

 _'Gut don't fail me now._ '

_Click._

The only other way he can tell a door's opened is the sudden flood of cold, stale air. What was this originally? A public attic? Generator storage? The vertical door placement is odd. Maybe it was an impromptu job. Then Harleen sneezes so loud she echoes right up the tunnel and he has to bite his tongue so he doesn't yelp. A soft _tap-tap_ follows. Her bat? Whatever she's doing, nothing seems to be happening. No traps. No explosions. No alarms.

"What's up with this weird door?" He hears her say below.

"Yeah, it's more than a little weird." He answers, relieved to hear her voice. "Was the lock old-fashioned or more up-to-date?"

"It was easy to pick, so very much old-fashioned." She responds cheekily.

That was promising. Mulling over accurate theories, though, isn't making him feel any better. If anything the lack of personal insight into what the hell is down there is making him itch uncontrollably. He thinks of Bane. How he doesn't fear the dark or view it as an obstacle, but applies to it the same practicality he gave everything else. How he can all but see straight through it. He thinks about how the masked man was raised for years in a cold, dark place. That, if anything else, these spaces might feel _more_ familiar to him than the outside world. Perhaps he should take also take a cue from the dark knight. Batman, much like him, had to adjust in the _opposite_ direction.

Harleen flicks her light on. Sudden shapes takes place in the open square below. He can just make out the corner of a table. He sees fuzzy shapes beneath, probably boxes. Maybe papers? He instinctively faces away from her, checking the door, and lifts down his phone to add to her light. Newspaper clippings and files are spread out rather haphazardly, the sudden mess giving a far more human touch to the more bare and everyday they'd been exposed to so far. His curiosity kicks into overdrive. They hit paydirt.

Then the door below slams shut. His blood turns to ice.

"...Harleen?" He hisses after a shocked moment. She might not be able to hear him. He leans against the weak floor and calls louder into the tunnel. " _Harleen?_ "

"Gives a whole new meaning to the term 'shut-in', huh?" She calls back. He blows out a sigh of relief. "I think I'll join you for ruined blood pressure, Sherlock."

"Good thing I didn't join." He says. "You're not in danger, are you?" Harleen doesn't speak for a straight minute. In the silence he hears the occasional _thump_ or _creak_ , sometimes below, sometimes without and where his ears can't place. It takes all his willpower not to dive down and claw his way inside. Anything to curb the paranoia batting his heart around in his chest.

"No danger, doll. Lots of, uh...photos, though. Lots of papers. Guy's a real fixer-upper, I'll tell you." He finally hears, though she's so distant he can barely make her out. She must be walking deeper inside. "...Fuckin' _creep_..."

"Photos of what?" He calls. "Grab what you can if it looks safe."

She says something else. He can't understand her. He whips out his phone and hastily dials her number. When she picks up, he almost wish he hadn't.

"He's documenting his work, Blake. He has photos and records of _everything_. People as places as people, just like a good little psychologist." He knows she's serious if she's using his actual name. He whips around at the sound of a _creak_ behind him. The door to the office is still closed. He should put something in front of it. They need time to figure out the trap that has her locked in- 

"He's runnin' some sort of operation here. Usin' the people here as test subjects for...toxin? Trauma toxin? He's got different names for it..." It sounds like she's reading something off. "'Aisha sees visions of her four year-old son who died in a drive-by shooting. She will do anything I ask for a dose of the toxin. As far as I'm concerned it's non-addictive, but she visits my office everyday. Double-check her dopamine levels.'" A shuffle of papers. Something hits the floor. "'Nnedi succumbs to severe depression when exposed to minor dosages. An alcoholic. Will check for interactions with various barbiturates.'"

He's gripping the floor so hard he's starting to get carpet burn. What the _hell?_ He knew it would be bad. Bane had held nothing back when he described the man's resume. But...how much longer could this have gone on if they did nothing? What would've happened to the people here? ...What _has_ happened to the people here? That woman. Aisha. No wonder she was so eager to get them in. He hears a few muttered voices somewhere down the hall. Residents, it sounds like. He can't focus on them. Not when Harleen says...

"'Seth committed suicide after just one session involving new toxin.'" Her voice has softened. Hardly more than a whisper. "'Reminder to view his background history for potential history of substance abuse.'"

They're both silent now. He can just hear her shuffling through evidence over the phone's speaker, a cursed rustle in his ear. They've done more in a few weeks than the entirety of Gotham law enforcement would even bother with in a year, but what should be a victory just feels...listless. He rises to his feet, zombie-like, and slowly walks over to the wooden chair in the corner. Harleen's voice over the receiver doesn't even jolt him out of his reverie.

"I'm gonna shove so much lead up this doctor's ass people will confuse him for a five-foot-eight _pencil_."

"Yeah. We'll get there." He mutters as he drags the chair to the door. "...First let's get you out of that room. There's probably an alarm we tripped-"

He freezes when the handle jiggles.

"You'll find my methods quite aggressive." He hears just outside the door, a smooth voice, followed by canned laughter. "I'm sorry, that sounded excessive. Rather, you'll see results sooner than you think. My new technique has shown incredible promise..."

Blake looks at the chair, then to the open door beneath the couch, the numbness in his brain revving into activity like an accelerated engine. Harleen is saying something else. He drops the chair and rushes over to the attic door, kicking it closed and pulling the couch back over it. What else did they disturb? Everything seems to be in place. Maybe he could slip into the closet door and watch. Then a rush of cool air tickles his clothes.

"...What...are you doing in my office?"

The detective stiffens, then slowly looks over his shoulder. Johnathan Crane is standing in the doorway. He looks much like he remembers him at the city hall, though his suit is much less tattered and his glasses sport black rims instead of gold. Smooth hair, shiny shoes, the very image of working-class professionalism. Two others are behind him, an older man in heavy winter clothes and a younger woman in what appears to be a work outfit, likely residents of the complex. Aisha isn't with them. The poor woman must still be down the hall.

He can imagine what they're seeing from their point of view. A classic jumped-up robber, clad in gray and black with only two dark eyes peering out from an obscuring scarf. No one speaks. Not even Harleen is budging below or speaking on the phone. Blake pulls out his gun. Crane's hands immediately whip up in surrender. The two behind him follow suit. His expression is still calm, but there's a gray pallor spreading over his skin. Good. He doesn't want to scare the residents behind him, no, but this twisted scientist was long overdue for a little fear of his own.

"Whatever you may want is in a safe to your right. I keep money and some belongings in there that could be worth quite a lot." He starts, though his eyes dart to the couch. "It's not much, but please..."

"I don't give a _shit_ about your money." Blake hisses. One of the residents, the younger woman, shifts uncomfortably. They're not as afraid as he would expect bystanders to be with a gun to their faces, more confused than anything else. Crane's eyes flick up and down. An intellectual's reasoning with the unknown.

"You seriously thought you'd be able to get away with this." Blake's hand is trembling in little fits. Attempting to register with the demon masquerading in human flesh just feet away from him. His emotions are treacherous waters, but Harleen's words are still ringing in his ears. "Then again, Gotham's seen some shit in its day. Couldn't say I blame you."

"...Who..." The man begins. "...are you?"

"I'm someone fed up with sociopaths like _you_ using _my_ city like your personal chemistry set." He says softly. "Someone who's not going to give you another chance...unlike Batman or Bane."

They're the right names to drop. The caution in Crane's eyes instead widen into the look of a person afraid they stepped on the toes of someone important.

"Oh, yeah. I know _all_ about you." He takes a step closer, finger itching to yank back the trigger and send every last wicked thought spraying onto the front door. "What you pulled eight years ago. The League Of Shadows funding your sick experiments. How Batman got you locked up in Arkham Asylum and how Bane let you parade around the city hall for shits and giggles. You're no _mystery_ , Crane. Just a disgusting wanna-be terror in a city that's already outdone you."

Blake wouldn't call himself vindictive, but there's a nasty pride in the utter _bewilderment_ whitening Crane's face. He's just peppered the man with verbal bullets and he's struggling to keep his footing, opening his mouth to speak only to shut it again. The detective was going to have to explain to the residents ( _why_ did they just look confused, they must've seen a lot in this depressing place already-) the details, though. Get them out so he could tie the guy up and ship him to Tatsu.

"You sound like you have friends in high places." Crane starts, throat bobbing in poorly concealed swallows. "I don't believe...we've met..."

Blake doesn't feel or smell the gas so much as hear it venting from somewhere below. He clutches the mask on his face, eager to reassure himself, and Harleen's cackle penetrates the floorboards under his feet.

" _Way_ ahead of you, Straw Man!" He feels her knock on the low ceiling with her bat for emphasis. "Why don'tcha come down here and fight toe-to-toe like a _real_ Gotham tough guy? You're giving the rest of us a bad name!"

Crane's eyes widen for the last time...then his entire demeanor changes.

"Well. That's _very_ interesting company you keep." Something much less cautious drawls his voice. "Harleen Quinzel spreading her tall tales again? Rallying the troubled youth with her...effervescent wiles?"

Blake narrows his eyes. The cold confidence that's now squared the scientist's shoulders doesn't leave.

"I must say, you don't _seem_ like her typical crew." He continues, musing on the situation like he's reading off a student report.

"...Yeah?" Blake responds. "Why's that?"

"You are clearly _much_ more foolish." The man moves his hands and Blake immediately levels his pistol with his head. Crane pulls his hand back. The two behind him could be confused for mannequins. Still and silent.

"You're going to tell me how to open that door back up." Blake says. "Before you tell me about _everything_ else."

"And just what is everything else?"

"What your drug does to people. How it messes with their psychology and drives some to suicide. Why it leaves side-effects that last for years. How to stop it. Every little damn thing I can _think_ of. I've got time, unlike you."

"And if I find that a ludicrous assertion?" Crane sighs. What would he do? Shoot him? Torture him? He had to admit, he didn't think he'd get this far. Their good luck had looked up without so much as a forewarning. They could've been in here for hours. Perhaps longer. Hesitation isn't making him look good. He can see it in the slow, smug smirk stretching Crane's face.

"How are you doing down there, Harleen?" He has to raise his voice to carry through the floor. "I heard something venting. You okay?"

"There's somethin' _funny_ about this gas. I don't mean in the laughin' way..." She doesn't sound so humorous now. He can still hear something going on below. A faint _hiss_ that could be easily confused for air-conditioning or a sagging balloon. Of course Crane wouldn't bother with a simple trap or alarm. It'd simply be easier to kill anyone who made it this far and clean up the mess later.

"Why the hell would you do this?" It's a useless question and they both know it, but the disgust weighing down his very bones demands he ask. "You got a second chance when Batman spared you. This is what you _do_ with it?"

"You waste interrogating me when she's getting a front row seat to my newest work?" Crane chuckles. "You're more naive than you look...and I can't see much with all that fuss over your face, if we're being honest."

"She has a mask." He says, doubt starting to crawl all over him. "She'll be fine."

"Will that protect her from third-degree burns?"

" _What?_ "

"It melts plastic." Crane says with a shrug. "Burns wood. Loosens up metal, though it depends on various factors like copper density that I'm sure won't interest you. I don't believe soft, fleshy human skin would stand much of a chance, really." Blake glances to the two behind Crane. Why the hell are they still _standing_ there like he didn't just describe a thorough and cruel form of murder? Are they accomplices...? The rumble of floorboards. Sudden desperate banging. Harleen is trying to break out.

"Help me." Crane's voice is suddenly pleading. He's speaking to the two behind him. Jogging them out of whatever drugged reverie they were in. "He's trying to steal our work. You can't let him. With all the progress we've made..."

"You have to get out!" Blake screams at the floor. " _Now!_ Whatever's in there is going to melt you alive!"

"I could use a hand, Sherlock!" She cries back. "Nothing's budgin'!"

Everything happens in a flash. The older man lunges forward and grabs for his gun. Instinctively he wrenches his hand to the side, striking him in the face with the other and sending him slamming backwards onto the floor. The gun skids out of his grasp on the carpet, but he doesn't have time for it. He whirls around, expecting the other to jump him, but she turns and flees through the open door. Jonathan Crane has vanished. He can hear his footsteps thundering down the hall. He looks to the door, then to the secret entrance, then to the door. If he gets away...if he loses this _chance_...

" _Blake!_ "

"...Hold on, Harleen!"

The tunnel leading down is too narrow. He could take hours trying to kick or carve it open. The floor, however... is just weak enough. He shouts a warning for her and grabs the couch. It's fucking heavy, but adrenaline has a way of turning an ant into a mountain. He bends his knees and hauls it up over his head, holds it for a long, precarious second, and slams it back down. An ear-splitting _crack_. He lifts it up again, even though his arms are on _fire_ with the strain, and drops it again. A deafening _crunch_. The floor cracks, then caves in.

"Holy _crap!_ "

He hopes he didn't hurt her. The Scarecrow could be long gone by now, but he attempts as best he can to yank back the couch now sinking halfway through the floor. His previously inhuman strength has all but left him and he has to grind his heels into the carpet, heaving backwards with all his weight in a desperate bid to take advantage of the huge hole he just made. The couch's weight suddenly gives and he slams back on his ass. Harleen's head pokes out a moment later. She must've pushed it up. The gap is just wide enough to move through...and wide enough to show something like green smoke creeping out.

"Here. Here!" He lunges forward, reaching down to her. "Grab my hand!"

Even through the mask the scent of burning paper and something much _sicker_ makes him want to vomit. Harleen is blinking and rubbing her face when she clambers back on the carpet, slapping on the smoke clinging to her jacket and starting to melt it shiny. Crane wasn't bluffing.

"Where's that son of a...?!" She coughs. "I swear I'll-"

"Come on." He reaches out to tug at Harleen's jacket, then thinks better of it. "We have to evacuate the building."

"But _Crane_...!"

"I _know_! But look at your shirt..." Is it acid? Poison? Something else? Another minute or two and she could've had the mask welded to her face. Judging by the round-eyed horror he glimpses in her eyes as they leave the room, her imagination is connecting the dots, too. "Everyone here is going to burn alive."

Harleen goes one direction. Blake bolts down the other, past multiple doors and around corners. There has to be a fire alarm. Something that could get everyone out as quickly as possible. He almost sings when he sees it protected under glass near the entrance -- he slams his elbow into it and yanks down the handle. Almost immediately people start opening doors and peering out in alarm. Harleen is caught between hollering at them to leave and yelling into her phone to Tatsu to meet them when he finds her again.

It didn't go to plan, she's saying. They have to leave and try again some other time.

The alarm howls through the weak walls. Dogs are now barking into the cacophony and voices are starting to be raised. Now that everyone is leaving proper he goes back to find Aisha where he left her, still out cold, and hefts her in his arms. She's surprisingly light (no, not surprisingly-) and he manages to find someone who knows her. It's the best he can do right now.

He finds Harleen outside. Blake looks around frantically, even though he knows the man is long gone. With a start he realizes he doesn't have his gun. _Damn_ it. It must've fallen down the sudden hole he had to make to get Harleen out.

"Where's Tatsu meeting us?" He asks, disappoint souring his voice. "Did you find any evidence below you could bring with you?"

"Just a few things I pocketed." She says as they run through the small apartment square toward the front gate. "Everything else went up in flam-."

They both screech to a halt. Crane is standing in front of the gate. He's wearing what looks like a burlap sack over his head. A knotted scar runs down and up the front, some twisted smile, and he can just make out the man's eyes peering through the front holes. ...No. Not Crane. Scarecrow.

"I don't think I can let you leave, officer." Even his soft voice manages to carry through the chaos bubbling behind them. "Your visit is much too short."

"I'm no officer." Blake scoffs. The man must be pretty sharp to pick up on his prior training. "You'll wish I were."

"In a few minutes you won't be able to keep _any_ secrets from me." There's a canister in his hand. A quick glance at the top and it's already been twisted open. There's no visual to latch onto, though. Not like the green haze that's still filling up his office and no doubt melting everything it touches.

"We got masks, don'tcha remember?" Harleen adds, tapping hers for effect. "And, for the record, it works _great_." The man's shoulders tremble. He's laughing.

"No..." Blake breathes. "...The complex."

"Well, aren't you clever." Scarecrow says with a sardonic clap of his hands. "Here I was prepared to clue you in on all my little traps, but you've spared me a monologue." His voice darkens. "We'll try the less is more approach, then."

Like flipping off a faucet the noise in the air dwindles down to almost nothing. Blake risks taking his eyes off Scarecrow to look around him in growing horror. The people that had been milling out of the apartment, possessions under their arms and phones to their ears, start acting...strange. They've stopped in their tracks. Some are looking to each other in confusion. Others are clearly looking at...nothing. One starts crying, an elderly man, breaking down into a howling wail that makes the hairs on his neck stand on end. A missing tire. A closed bud. Everything is out-of-place.

"The hell do you think you're doing!" Blake whirls back around, staring the man straight through his tattered, moldy mask. "Don't take this out on them!"

"They invited me here with open arms." Scarecrow says, cruelly indignant. "I'm simply giving them what they wanted."

"They're gonna lose it." Harleen says in a rush. "We'll have to knock 'em out, Sherlock. They're gonna lose it."

"Risk it?" He doesn't take his eyes off Scarecrow now. Not with him still a few feet away. "Harleen, there's only _two_ of us. That's not enough!"

"You're preachin' to the choir. How else we gonna save 'em and catch the bastard?" She snaps. "You have sleep darts, don'tcha? Give 'em to me!"

He pauses for only a moment, then pulls his remaining pistol out of his pocket and tosses it to her. Then he turns to Scarecrow. He can't see the man's face, but the sudden stiffening of his posture as Blake runs full-tilt toward him tells him everything he needs to know. The man turns, leaps over the broken gate, and flees.

Scarecrow is rushing toward a cheap red car is just across the way. If Blake had his standard pistol he'd shoot his tires. Maybe his legs. All he has is his adrenaline and the complete, utter _rage_ that someone would leave an entire complex to drown in poison. Unfortunately for Crane, the detective was used to working with very little.

The man doesn't make it three feet in front of the car before a brick goes straight through the side-window, missing him by an inch and sending glass shattering everywhere. He spins around in alarm, only to duck as another flies straight at his head. Blake picks up another, ignoring the agonizing burn in his arms, and hefts it.

"End of the line, Crane."

"Going to have a word with her..." He hears him muttering frantically as he stumbles backwards. "Listen to me, listen to me, damn it, this is not what you think-"

He dives to one side as Blake sends the brick straight at his head. The bastard is slippery, barely getting out of the way and getting a massive dent where he was standing. He ditches the car and runs, but they both know it's only a matter of time. He was going to smash the motherfucker's head clean open.

"Just _listen_ to me-" He gasps when Blake closes the gap between them. The river beneath the bridge roars before him, matching the pounding blood in his ears. "You could _see_ them again!"

Blake lifts his last brick, then hesitates.

Scarecrow doesn't continue, still huddled and waiting for a blow, then looks up at him through trembling hands when it doesn't come.

"My formula isn't perfect yet." He pants, mask twitching fitfully with each breath. "I have been working on it for nearly half my life and it's closer to a breakthrough than ever before." He sits up a little, though doesn't stand, not with Blake still shaking with anger with a brick in his hand not a few inches away. "You're familiar with my work. What it does. ...Did they seem real?"

His mother in her favorite gray coat in the flickering light of the streetlamp. The voice of his father, that low drawl flecked with the accent he just barely learned how to hide, asking for his attention and dissipating into nothingness at Blake's barbed words. The feel that his grandmother could be just around the corner.

"Memories. Preserved perfectly in your mind, able to be accessed with naught more than a simple breath. Nobody would ever suffer another loss, would they?"

Just like that, the seed of an ugly thought is planted in his head. Young John Blake, angry little John Blake, pushed from orphanage to orphanage with a gaping hole in his life where his parents used to be. What would've changed if the anger hadn't overflowed and consumed him for the better part of years? Would he have turned into an aimless little shit that could barely hold a job down when he wasn't trying to run away from his own life? Entered a field that made people fear him for all the wrong reasons? His mind swims with the possibilities. His boys and their patchwork quilt of loss, grief and abuse held together by St. Swithin's dedicated hand. The people here, in one of the worst neighborhoods in one of the worst cities, just trying to find a moment's reprieve. Enough they'd let in a shady doctor blatantly experimenting on them for a break alcohol or weed couldn't fix.

"Bane was wise to leave me alive. Talia saw my potential." Blake can feel the man smiling. "I know you know of her."

His work is sick. But he could...

"We could do much better than this, Blake." He's starting to rise to his feet. "Let's talk."

The brick slides lifelessly from his hands. Scarecrow lets out a slow sigh of relief...then _gasps_ when Blake rears back and slams a foot into his gut. The psychologist hits the ground in a plume of dust.

" _Shut up._ "

Scarecrow hacks fitfully into his mask.

"Harleen isn't telling you the whole _story_ -"

"I don't want to hear another damn _thing_ coming out of your mouth." Blake snaps. "How many people have died because of you? You _coward!_ " He slams his foot into the man's stomach again. Scarecrow lets out a sharp wheeze, huddling in on himself. Little by little righteous rage floods out of him in the form of brutal kicks, an overwhelming violence with no other target than the man curled up on the ground and attempting to covering his head from the blows.

" _That's_ for my neighbor!"

He stomps his heel into his ribs.

" _That's_ for Harleen!"

Another stomp. Something bends.

"That's for _everything_ you did here!"

Another stomp. Something gives. Scarecrow howls.

"You _coward_ -"

" _Sherlock!_ "

Harleen. Blake doesn't turn around. He keeps his gaze firmly on the blood welling up in the mask and turning it a muddy black. Judging by the faint _whistle_ that accompanies each cough, he's broken something.

"Wait, wait-" Harleen says as she stops next to him. "Hold up." He looks at the dirt all over her hands and knees. Finally turns away from Crane to look at the complex. He can see people crowding about at a safer distance. The faint keen of a siren sounds a ways away. Camera flashes blink like weak stars intermittently in the chaos. It's a faint realization he has that nobody is going to know what truly happened here.

"Don't kill 'im." Harleen is saying. "We-"

Scarecrow takes the sudden lull to lunge up at them from where he lays in the grass. A knife flashes. Harleen shoves Blake back, even as he shouts in alarm and tries to grapple the man. Like a well-oiled machine they subdue him together. Blake with one last knee into his stomach. Harleen with a mean right hook to his face. He hits the ground and doesn't get back up again.

"I was _gonna_ say we still need 'im..." She pants.

"I know." Blake finally says. He slumps onto his knees, suddenly boneless and breathless. "I know. I don't kill unless I have to." Harleen stands beside him, leans down a little and pats his shoulder. After all the fear and anger, the soft touch is actually welcome.

"...though I can't say the thought sounds so good now." She finishes. "That's what I like about you, doll." She glares down at the psychologist. "Dunno if I would've stopped."

"It wasn't easy." If not for his mask he'd spit on the man. "Sick fuck."

Scarecrow is limp. Likely passed out. Now that the rush of adrenaline is gone he's left instead with the frightening knowledge that his anger got the better of him. Even though it was justified. _More_ than justified. He couldn't lose control like that again. Not after... No, no, he didn't have time to self-analyze. First things first. First thing...

"Have you gotten ahold of Tatsu?" He manages to ask.

"She'll be here in a few." She picks at the slash in her jacket. "Dang it. I liked this top." She rubs her arm. He can just make out a thin cut. Negligible compared to what could've happened. "You still in one piece, doll?" She looks him over. He shrugs weakly.

"Yeah. I kind of want to vomit, though."

"Well, don't vomit yet. 'Cause we're gonna drink ourselves stupid tonight."

"You know...I think I'll join you on that."

Harleen looks at him with a growing smile curving her eyes. He slowly grins in return. They start to laugh, shakily at first, then dissolve into full-tilt howling that could probably be heard from the complex. They _did_ it. They captured the Scarecrow. It's tempting to slump down onto the ground and rest, right then and there, but he knows if he does he'll break the world record for longest nap ever taken.

"Have they left the complex...?" He's still watching the activity beyond the field. "They're still way too close."

"Most of 'em should've." She looks exhausted. Even her pigtails seem to be drooping. "Tried to tell 'em not to breathe the air, but some didn't listen." The shame in her voice is enough for him. After all this, it's enough. She just did an incredible thing for Gotham. Something people wouldn't even appreciate properly.

"...Thanks, Harleen." Blake rubs his hair. "I know you wanted to do it the old-fashioned way, but you still gave it a shot. So many more could've..." Could've? Shit, it was happening right now. If he deigned to just look over his shoulder and watch the chaos from a distance.

"I'm an old-fashioned kinda gal, but it ain't always the way to do things." She scratches at the writing on her bat. Goodnight on one side. Sleep Tight on the other. "Think I should listen to you more."

He sees a car heading their way. It must be Tatsu. He hope she brought some friends, because he's not entirely sure they're out of hot water. He really doesn't like how much green smoke is rising into the air. They're still not that far away, either, and even a sniff of the stuff could mess them up. He decides not to take off his mask until he's well across the river.

"Hopefully this will get enough attention to rile up some sort of action." He says, rubbing grit from his hands. "We're not even close to done."

Harleen doesn't say anything. Nothing but a soft _tap-tap_. He glances sideways at her. She's tapping her bat into the other palm thoughtfully. Blue eyes looking at him much like she looked at...

"Lotta old-fashioned folks in Gotham." She says, turning to him and holding her bat up. "You think a kid's gonna change my mind about you?"

"What...are you talking about?" He says, holding up his hands for good measure. Her eyes flash with a sudden wrath and he takes a step back.

"He ain't _yours_ , puddin'."

"What the-"

"You thought I was _waitin'_ for you to come save me?" She's holding the bat like a batter waiting for a good throw. "Like a little wedding cake topper?" He leans back when she swings. The air whistles sharply. She swings again. He stumbles on something he can't see and almost loses his footing. His heart is pounding a dent into his chest.

"What are you _doing?!_ "

The bat swings down in a vertical arc and hits the ground. He grabs it. Tries to yank it out of her grasp or get her losing her balance, whichever blessing comes first. After a vicious struggling match she simply flings it to the side and lunges at him like a rabid dog.

"Take off that mask and show me who you _really_ are!" He slams onto the ground with the full force of her weight. She's on top of him, grabbing at the mask and _wrenching_ it back. "You two-faced cretin! You clown!" It snaps right off his face. He sucks in a sharp breath, tries to pull it back, gasps anyways as she slams a fist into his eye.

" _What's going on?!_ "

Tatsu! She's pulled up. He opens his mouth to call out, to tell her to get Scarecrow _away_ , only to receive a slug in the eye for his troubles. Stars scatter across his vision and it's only muscle memory that has him curling his legs against Harleen's chest and pushing her up, up and over and off of him. It knocks the wind out of her and buys him just enough time to speak.

"Don't breathe the air..." He wheezes. Where is his mask? "Don't breathe-"

"Stay put!" Tatsu has a pistol pointed right at him with a finger on the trigger. "Get away from Harleen, _now!_ "

"No, no, no, I'm not attacking her-"

"I said stay put!"

' _My, oh, my. This is a bit of a mess, isn't it?_ '

Blake whirls around. Scarecrow? No. He's on the ground as still as a corpse.

' _They don't trust you at all...do they?_ '

Harleen picks up the bat again. Blake stumbles back. Clawing at his hair. Is it inside his head? Outside?

' _Where are your friends?_ '

...Oh.

Too many voices. He can't even make out his own. He's stumbling backwards like a terrified animal, his eyes glued to the metal bat now glinting maliciously above his head, hands scrape on the cold ground in desperation for something, anything, to stave off the inevitable. Gravel. Dirt. Grass. Glass. She's laughing like someone possessed. Like the fact she's about to murder him in cold blood is the best joke she's heard all week.

"You should've killed me when you had the chance, _puddin'!_ "

Like the first few sips of a strong drink he feels his world changing inside and out. So he does what's gotten him this far. He runs. Away from the car and Crane's body and Tatsu's scared face and Harleen's terrifying laughter and the burning complex and the dead grass and-

' _You sure this isn't just a bad dream?_ ' Scarecrow's voice follows him every step of the way. ' _Why don't you wake up and put all this misery behind you._ '

He thinks he crosses the bridge out of the Narrows. He thinks he makes it all the way back to East End where the ground gets hard and everything stinks beautifully of deep city. Someone pushes him. Grabs him? His side slams into a parked car door in his effort to stumble away, then he's gripping it for balance and hacking out winded breaths and looking inside. The bloodied face of his mother stares back, airbag still whistling out its last promise as she gazes at him through unseeing eyes.

' _It's hard not to drink your fill, but you can have too much of a good thing, you know._ ' He somehow hears through his scream. ' _I know._ ' Whispers. ' _You miss them...don't you?_ '

"Stop..." He begs, clutching his mouth with both hands. "Oh, god... _stop_..."

A gunshot. The scatter of birds. His father is laying on the ground a few feet away, playing cards spilling out of his chest in lieu of blood. They slither down his body and trickle down the uneven sidewalk, slippery under his feet. He trips. An iron taste fills his mouth. The animal part of his brain knows it's time to get somewhere safe. Somewhere hidden. Even as the sight of his grandmother turns his gaze.

"Zip up your coat, _boychik_." She points to his chest with a white-gloved hand. "I don't know what they teach you at that place."

Oh. Yiddish. He hardly remembers any of it, not when his mother and grandmother took the knowledge with them, but somehow he understands it now, plain as music. He marvels at her, slack-jawed. Short and plump and tidy in her Sunday best, that net she used to tame her curls wrapping behind her head and not a detail out of place. Her baggy eyes wrinkle into dark lines, just like his own, and she points at his coat again with a more insistent finger.

' _You never told her you were sorry for all those things you said._ ' Scarecrow sighs. ' _Oh, dearie, me._ '

Like a frightened kid, he knows, somehow, she's safe. He walks toward her, slowly reaching out, and feels the terrifying clutter around him melt away. Scarecrow is still speaking, but he's growing quieter, more distant.

" _Bobeshi_." Blake whispers. He wants to return it to her better than that, but it doesn't go both ways, it seems, the words feeling clumsy and unnatural on his tongue even as they sing in his ears. " _Bobeshi_ , I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all those things I said. I didn't mean a word of it. Not a word..."

She closes the gap between them. None of that eerie walking-yet-not-walking that he remembers back in Old Gotham, no, she's _walking_ and pressing a leathery hand to his cheek. He can _feel_ it. By god, he can feel it as if she were truly flesh and blood before him.

"Too old for _savta_ , eh?" She shakes her head with a smile. "Oh, your hair is so short, now..."

"O-oh. Oh, no, no. Oh, I'm sorry." The words still come out in a rush, each one pulled out of him with the pain and relief of a splinter. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I loved you so much. I'm sorry I was so angry and took it all out on you. It wasn't right. It wasn't your fault."

"Robin." She interrupts, gently, pets his hair out of his eyes. The bruise swelling his right twinges in response. "My love. What are these apologies for? You were grieving in the only way you knew how. I never once took what you said to heart." Her voice becomes a little harder. "Your father didn't do very much to help, did he? Always left you home alone to go play cards."

"Yeah. He did. When he wasn't...drinking himself to sleep." The anger bubbles against grief. Clashes like water and oil, nothing but poorly mixed feelings he thought he lay to rest years ago. "I wasn't good to him either, though." He tries to swallow the hot lump in his throat. "I wasn't good to a lot of people. I didn't have a lot of friends. Too angry for...anyone."

"Hey. Hey now." She snaps, holding his chin in one hand much like she did when he could barely reach up to her shoulder. "This is not the Robin I helped raise. Regrets are wind. Howl they may, but they can only push you if you let them."

"...Yeah." He can feel his mouth attempting a smile, though it twitches and twists instead with pain. "But...I just..."

His grandmother holds him up as he sinks down, pushes his face into her shoulder and attempts and fails to gulp back an onslaught of terrible, heaving breaths. Her dress smells like the bread she loved to bake. Her blouse warm and soft and paternal. It undoes any self-control he could have and he cries, _howls_ , twists his hands in the front of her dress in some childish effort to concentrate the misery burning him alive.

"Oh, oh, oh, shh. Come, now." She murmurs against his hair. "Come now. You're all right." She rocks on the balls of her feet, swaying him side-to-side. "You've done so well."

Words come out of him, but they're as torn as he feels. Apologies. Rants. Fears. His already tenuous grip on reality blurs alongside his vision. He can only count the minutes that ticked by through the scratchiness left in his throat when the tears have dried up and left him a shaky, fatigued mess. He leans against her, weak and tired, and listens to his grandmother speak. She never once stops petting his hair.

"You helped save all those protesters at the city hall. They could've been hurt or killed by those explosions." She says with a warm, proud smile. "You quit a terrible profession to do the right thing, no matter how hard it became. So fearless. You've become such a wonderful big brother to all those incredible boys. Your mother wanted you to be a mentor when you grew up, you know. She always said you'd be a role model someday."

"How...how do you know about all that...?" He whispers, pulling back and staring with round eyes. "The city hall, my boys...?"

"Oh, love." Her smile dimples a little. "I've never gone anywhere."

The world around him flickers. Scarecrow's hissing whispers are starting to rise up again, sluggish as ink through paper, and the paranoia that followed his panicked steps before is starting to rise through him again like a chill.

"Hey. Hey now." She says, quickly. "You need to go, love. All right?" She pushes him away, not unkindly, and hastily brushes something off his jacket. "Up you go, now."

"No, I-" He rasps out, trying to grip her and grabbing a fistful of air. "Not yet-!"

"What did I tell you, love?" Still chiding him, even as she falls apart like a flurry of snow. He swallows back his scratchy throat, again and again and again.

"Regrets...regrets are wind." He whispers.

"Regrets are wind." She repeats. Her voice fades into the fabric of gray and black. "Don't look back."

Time forever loses meaning. There's nothing left but raw sensation, leaving as quickly as it arrives, and he doesn't remember even a moment when his brain was able to piece anything together. His palms sometimes scrape rough, wet ground. Something damp soaks into the knees of his jeans. He moves away from where his grandmother used to stand. Away from the car holding his mother frozen in time. Like the aftermath of a wreckage he slogs through and away from the memories lining his peripheral vision, every last one tempting him to stop and stare.

Where there should have been a neighborhood street has transformed into the rushing water of sewers. Tom has washed up nearby, the water licking the edge tugging fitfully at his red jacket. Maybe if he reached out and touched him he would breathe again. Join Reilly over dinner like he used to. But he has to move forward.

He stumbles on a brick, the salmon pink crusted with a darker stain, and he can't look now. Can't follow the trail of flecked blood to its source. But he's not Blake. Not anymore. He's merely an observer in a nightmare, a tourist, watching his world end around him. A freckled boy marks the end of the spotted trail many feet away, sitting on nothing and sticking his tongue out petulantly despite the gaping hole in his head.

Walking. Stumbling. Then he's crawling, laughing, slumping onto his side like a dying animal and curling into himself somewhere dark and cold and everywhere and nowhere and somewhere, probably, maybe.

" _Water_..."

Somewhere deep in the heart of East End, John Blake clutches himself and slowly goes mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picking up this fanfic after having it sit in my e-mail drafts for years was one of the main reasons I decided to post it. I was surprised by how decent (but still _quite_ flawed) my old writing was. Even more surprising was the serious time gap in-between -- opening it up and getting sucked into my own work out of the blue, like I was reading the writings from a complete _stranger_ , was surreal and sort of incredible. 
> 
> I want to learn from my past self even as I strive forward for improvement. If I make it that far, I wonder what it'll be like looking back on my writings another four years from now.
> 
>  
> 
> (also I _really_ hope I didn't butcher basic Yiddish too badly here. I wanted to play around with those sort of dreams you have when learning other languages, the ones where you're bouncing between them and it's both exhilarating and kind of random all at once)


	39. Call Me Robin

The murmur of voices. Glass clinking. Windchimes in the distance, tuneless and quaint as they tend to be in relaxed weather. Robin lifts his head from his arms and attempts to blink the bleariness from his eyes, the gross weight that hangs over his entire body telling him he's slept for too long.

Dark wooden counters glisten up at him, reflecting the low-hanging lamps swaying in the wind as starkly as a mirror. They're not turned on yet, as the afternoon sun is still beaming happily through the windows, but it's clear they would be something to behold in their full splendor. Sitting up he immediately winces at the heat and tugs at his shirt collar to let the breeze through -- he really shouldn't have worn a vest today. He pushes away the cotton curtains brushing against the side of his face and attempts to gain his bearings.

It had been pretty raucous before. The venue feels much calmer now. He glances at the folder under his arms, a few stains darkening the edges of paper poking out. Right. He still hadn't signed. The hearing was in just a week, though he feels he could have all the time in the world and still not be able to drill some compassion into the heads of the chairmen. They wouldn't know human decency if it popped open its shirt and attempted to seduce them. With a wince he realizes he doesn't even remember how long he's been here. He checks the clock and, to his horror, doesn't get an answer.

"Hard not to drink your fill here."

Robin turns to the stranger observing him with mild amusement the next seat over. An older man, late thirties or early forties, maybe. Hints of dark hair dust his scalp in a close cut, broken up occasionally by what seem like thin, scattered scars. Unlike Robin the heat doesn't seem to bother him -- he's wearing a loose, unbuttoned brown coat alongside a thick, red scarf. The splash of color is a welcome sight from the grays and blacks that filled his dreams. The deep brown and shiny floors of the bar even more so.

"Yeah." He mutters, looking at the multitude of empty shot glasses clustered beside his hand. One, two, three, four...five. "No kidding."

Clearly the stress was getting to him, because he also doesn't remember his dreams being _this_ unsettling. Visions of smoggy and cloistered cities still itch in the back of his mind, like the blue-collar towns he tried to _avoid_ further East, splashes of violence peppered intermittently between more mundane details fading with each passing moment. Trying to water a plant that only wilted with every drizzle of water, for one. People talking to him over the phone in conversations he can't remember anymore, for another. His naps were always brief and without character, but alcohol had a way of making his dreams feel like a lifetime.

Robin lets out a sigh and rubs his temples as a headache threatens to make itself clear. The man is still watching him out of the corner of his eye, chin in one hand.

"You're still here, aren't you? Relax while you can." His throbbing head struggles to place his accent. Something melodic, yet sharp. Spanish? Maybe Portuguese? He watches him turn and wave politely for the attention of the bartender. "No reason to sully a good place with the worries of the outside."

"It'll catch up eventually." Robin mumbles, mopping sweat from his hairline and attempting to run his fingers through his bangs. "Just delaying the inevitable." It always gets wavier when it's longer. Curly hair, even in a city that groomed itself on individuality, wasn't treated as professional as a slick-back or trim. These disconnected musings bubble to the surface like drink fizz, except far more irritating and not even promising him reprieve once he's done. He had a day left on his weekend getaway and so far all he'd managed to do was put off his obligations at tasteless parties he wasn't even interested in, get lost for a good hour downtown trying to find a single restaurant and end up passing out at a bar.

Robin squints at the clock (shaped like three dolphins swimming in a circle) again. No, he hadn't been here for _three_ hours. That just didn't make sense.

He vaguely recalls one of the servers hovering in the background. A tanned woman with a long ponytail. It was only the prestige of the place that kept him from being hauled out entirely and dumped on the sidewalk, really. Popular venues loved their well-paying customers and this place didn't get to be one of the most famed tourist destinations by acting like more typical sleazy bars. Maybe he should thank his good taste. The only actual trouble he'd have to wake up to is a hangover and a bored sex worker by the time his weekend ground to a close. His snowball of thoughts grinds to a halt when the man hands him a glass of ice water.

"Lead it on a merry chase until then." He says with a smile.

Robin hesitates, then takes the cup and sips it gingerly, not realizing how thirsty he is until he's reached the bottom of the glass. "Thanks." He lets out a cold sigh and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grateful the dry texture making his throat stick is gone. "Phew. You know you're stressed when you barely remember how you got here. I remember the weird dream I had more."

"Perhaps your mind is trying to tell you something." The man offers amicably. "Spending more time in visions of the past or future than the present?" The smile becomes playful. "Or simply had one too many?"

"The former." He responds dryly, setting the cup down. "A nice sentiment, but I'm not sure how evil clowns and ghosts will factor into my work-life balance."

"On the contrary. Symbolism in dreams is an entire field that boasts hundreds of years of avid research. Seemingly inane or confusing subject matter could take on deeper meaning if they show even superficial connection to your life." He scratches the stubble on his chin. "I once had a dream about a hallway that never ended. No matter how hard I ran it just stretched on, longer and longer, until I grew frustrated and tried to instead walk up the wall." He chuckles. "Turns out the ceiling had a hidden door."

"Well, don't you have all the answers." Robin snorts. "You a drive-by shrink?"

"My apologies." He holds up his hands. "I'm a historian. We always read between the lines." As if realizing he's still a complete stranger (albeit a rather handsome one), he holds out a hand. "Behnam."

"Call me Robin." He's not sure if he's more surprised by the man's firm grip or the fact his hand completely dwarfs his own. He could probably tower over him if he sat up a little, as he goes right back to hunching over the bar counter and nursing a half-full beer in one hand. A small part of him hopes he hadn't seen him sleeping. He had an embarrassing tendency to drool.

"That's a neat line of work. Preserving history is an invaluable skill." He continues, pretending to fix his vest and surreptitiously checking his shirt for spots. Behnam swells with pride in the corner of his eye. "What field?" What he doesn't mention is the rather odd disparity between the man's profession and physique -- then again, judging a book by its cover is something he's learning _not_ to do. It always gets him in trouble.

"Glad to meet someone who doesn't think it's obsolete." He says, pleased. "Field archaeology. I'm actually traveling now." He nods his head toward the window, as if it would give him any indication of where he's going. "There's a rather large hike waiting for me near Mount Pico."

"That's in Portugal, right? What do you do up there?" His phone buzzes. Robin glances at the screen -- his mother sent him a text. Something about a cute dog she saw. He'd look at it later.

"I'll be leading my students on their first expedition. So to speak. I worked with a small team for a few years, but we ended up losing our funding at a crucial time and splitting apart when we were unable to crowdfund ourselves." He sighs. "Long story, but at the time it really felt like a huge missed opportunity. There was so much just _waiting_ to be unearthed. Supplies are temporary, but history is forever, you know?" He waves a hand, as if impatient with himself. "Irregardless, I found I had a knack for teaching. So a waste of time it was not. Same place, similar expedition, _years_ later. A twist of fate."

Robin normally got irritated when people ramble, but he finds himself drawn into the man's spirited delivery. "Yeah? That's quite a turn of events. How long have you been teaching, then?"

"This will be the end of my first year. Incidentally, my students' first year getting down and dirty with the dust of the past." He grins. "Though they will hardly find it so romantic when they come face-to-face with all the hiking, crouching, kneeling, dusting and long hours with nature's finest insects."

"A lot of hoofing it, huh. That explains your..." Robin pauses, then runs a hand through his hair. "Um." No, damn it, that _wouldn't_ explain the thick arms and broad shoulders. His headache decides right then and there to pound behind his eyes, barely staved off by the cold water, and he tries to keep irritation from stiffening his jaw and making him look like a bad idea.

"I occasionally moonlight as a cage fighter, if that's what you're getting at." He murmurs, that plush and expressive mouth curving around the rim of his cup as he chases down the rest of his beer. "And you?" Robin adjusts his collar again. There's a scar on the man's bottom lip he didn't notice before, as well as a few scattered lines scratching away at the dark stubble on his jawline, and it's making the already stifling weather nearly unbearable.

"Law. I specialize in helping abused and at-risk children. I graduated two years ago and I've been working between a few different firms since. I'd like to settle down at one place, but the travel isn't half bad, I guess." This was normally the part where people would pucker their mouth in a show of sympathy. Treat him like a savior instead of a person doing a job that needed to be done. Instead Behnam simply nods.

"That's good to hear." He waves his hand for his tab. "Someone needs to stand up for them."

Blake pulls out his wallet. "Should be more than someone." He contemplates his tip. A little extra for the waitress that checked up on him. "Should be everyone."

"Well, if it means anything you clearly have the grit necessary to navigate the legal system's murky waters." Behnam responds as he stands up. "Your scowl would no doubt change many a person's mind." It's probably meant as a compliment. It doesn't feel like one. Co-workers and clients alike weren't overly fond of how...what did his boss call him that one night? 'Depressing poker face'? Robin, whether he wanted to be or not, was the hardass in the office that was just as likely to call co-workers out on bullshit as the allegedly abusive father or neglectful mother brought to his desk.

"You don't have to patronize me." He huffs as he sets down a few bills. "I'm just having a shaky weekend, that's all."

"...My apologies." The man holds up a placating hand. "It was an inappropriate thing to say."

Oh, Hell. He was probably being too harsh. Even on vacation it was hard for him to loosen up. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm not exactly..." He tries to smile, but it probably comes off as stilted. "Let me put it this way. Books and files remain my company more often than not. The will is there, but the skill is...it leaves much to be desired." Robin hopes this stranger takes it as an apology. He's not exactly good at saying them straight-up, after all.

"I see. Well, you're in good company." Behnam flicks his head to the murmuring crowds huddled over tables and mingling by the bar. "I imagine everyone here is getting reacquainted with the art of the conversation."

"Let's see how well I can compose, then." Robin offers with a small smile. He likes how the man returns it. As easily as if they were old friends. "What level do you teach, again?"

"University." He responds. "I have to say, guiding the eager mind of twenty-somethings is much different than being dragged along by children."

"You used to teach elementary?" He blinks at him. "Now _that's_ tough." He wasn't going to elaborate that, despite _his_ job having him help children, he wasn't all that good at actually interacting with kids.

"No. Well, yes. In a sense. My daughters." Behnam immediately pulls out his phone to show him a family photo, swelling with fatherly pride -- he's standing next to a tall woman at what appears to be a mountain resort, two small girls clustering between them and sticking out their tongues to a backdrop of cool, green hills. "Talia and Mari. Seven and ten."

Aw, damn. He might be taken. Robin doesn't do a very good job of hiding his disappointment, it seems, as the man chuckles and shakes his head. "Oh, no, no. I haven't been married in years. I wasn't..." He sobers. As sudden as a flick of a light. "Perhaps...this is a subject for another time."

A topic change. He could do that. "You said cage fighter." Robin offers. "Was that true or were you just trying to impress me?"

"A bit of both."

Robin slowly raises one eyebrow. Behnam flicks through his phone nonchalantly. The bartender brings back their cards and bids them a good rest of their day.

The warm air is much more welcoming than it was earlier. His coastal city loved its glaring sun and long daylight hours, but it could be more affectionate when it wanted to be. The afternoon was late, just shy of evening, and he can see it in the long shadows kissing their steps as they weave between people and vendors and dogs leashed to poles. Behnam walks close, almost enough for their shoulders to touch, but doesn't move beyond that. Teasing or respectful, he's not sure. But his curiosity has long since been piqued.

"Here."

Robin takes the offered phone and peers at the photo. He's immediately struck by the bright, flashy decorations and vibrant outfits. Somewhere south of the border, it seems. The man is wearing a tight black leather outfit, topped off with flashy little elements like a thick belt and fingerless gloves, but as much as it embraces his (very impressive) figure it's not what holds Robin's attention. It's the mask over his face, something much more unsettling than he would have expected from the bombastic and somewhat cheesy sub-culture of underground fighting. Oily black and wrapping over and down his face like a muzzle, the front is covered with a cluster of metal wires, leaving only his eyes to stare through.

"The Bane." Behnam laughs, a full and happy sound that doesn't mix at all with what he's looking at. "A play on my name, if that wasn't already obvious." His face slowly calms at Robin's expression. "...Though it _is_ a niche for a reason."

"No, you're...fine." He mutters, squinting a little in the late afternoon light. Why did this look familiar? It tickles in the back of his mind like some old memory, but he knows he hasn't seen this before. Has he? He really must've drank too much if he'd forgotten a mask that looked straight out of a horror film. The man is rather quiet now and Robin knows he must look like he's trying not to say something rude. He starts to browse the photos with a flick of his thumb.

One picture has 'The Bane' posing over what seems to be an unconscious opponent, arms spread and fingers flared in some grandiose pose, tight black suit not quite hiding muscles that glint menacingly between camera flashes. Another is a side-profile, the lights from the audience casting his portrait in sharp shadow. It makes his skin crawl, frankly, though he wasn't about to tell him that.

"This is going to sound weird...but I feel like I've seen this before." He holds back a laugh at a photo showing Behnam crouching with two enthusiastic fans and flashing a peace sign, mask off and still in costume. He certainly looks less dangerous when he smiles. Perhaps that's why he did it so much.

"Cage fighting?" Behnam asks, surprised. "Or the venue?"

"No." Robin gestures vaguely to his face. "Your...mask."

The man relaxes a little, as if glad he didn't indirectly drive away his company for the evening. "Interesting." He raises an eyebrow. "But you're _not_ a fan...?"

Damn his fuzzy memory. He needed to double-check the alcohol content of those drinks next time. "Not really. Never got into the sub-culture." He heaves out a sigh at Behnam's amused frown. "I'm not pulling your leg. This is way more weird for me than it is for you. You need to tell me what got _you_ into this, though, because I'm still not entirely convinced you're not pulling _my_ leg."

"Good stress relief." Behnam shrugs. "It's quite effective."

"I don't think I could take blows to my ribcage for stress relief." Robin says. "I just play poker and mourn over the state of my wallet later."

"You may be in luck, then." Behnam tilts his head. Robin follows the motion. They're surrounded by downtown's quintessential shops, bars and hangouts. His partner for the night, however, is eyeing the arcade. From what he remembers it's filled with classic and modern games. A few novelties added over the years for tourists. He normally avoided those places, mainly because someone in their thirties tended to stick out like a sore thumb among the teenagers, bored twenty-somethings and family packs. When Behnam raises his eyebrows at him mischievously, though, even the most aggressive social faux paus couldn't keep him away.

"Up for a game?" He offers with conspicuous politeness. He can already see where he's going with this.

"Oh, sure. Why not." Robin answers, just as casually. "But it could be more interesting."

"High risk, high reward. I can appreciate that." The man squares his shoulders in a challenge. "What are the stakes?"

"Beat me and I treat you to dinner." Robin crosses his arms. "Lose and you owe _me_ a steak."

"Ha! Steak. Ah, I see what you did there." Behnam says as he opens the door and walks in. Robin rolls his eyes and follows him into the flashing lights and noise.

Everything smells like sweat and cheap popcorn. Rock-paper-scissors nets them a game of pong when they can't choose between the nearest videogame or skee ball. They slowly but surely garner more than a few glances from outside parties, being two nicely dressed men aggressively swiping at a tiny white ball in the corner of the room. At the moment he only has eyes for Behnam, though, and the fact this match wasn't nearly as easy as he thought it would be.

"How are you..." _Clack._ "...so good at..." _Clack._ "...pong?"

"My daughters..." _Clack._ "...always challenge me..." _Clack._ "...every time I visit..." _Clack-clack._ "Darn it." He leans down to pick up the ball from the floor. Two to two now. "You should see me at Scrabble."

"I won't even contest you on that." Robin says as he tugs at his collar. He's actually starting to work up a sweat. "You sound like you're on a strict diet of dictionaries."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Behnam laughs. "A very, very weird compliment."

"I've got more where that came from." Robin says as he tosses the ball into the air. "How weird they are depends on you."

"Well. I look forward to it." The look in the man's eyes makes him thirsty all over again.

He loses the tiebreaker round when Behnam snaps the ball right past him with such ferocity he's surprised it didn't leave a hole in the wall behind him. Growling a little louder than he meant to and startling two small children nearby, he tosses the paddle onto the table and crosses his arms.

" _Rematch_."

Behnam barks out a surprised laugh and puts a hand on his hip. "Rematch? That's a funny response to a loss."

"You heard me."

"Well, it can't be pong." He concedes. "You look like you're about to suplex the table."

He scans the length of the venue, then perks up at the sight of a green table. He takes the man by the crook of his arm and tugs him over. Behnam doesn't detangle from his grip, content to be led along still chuckling his ass off. Now _this_ was a game he was good at. He had impeccable aim, though he was notorious among his co-workers for 'taking forever'. Ugh. He needed to stop thinking about work.

Behnam scratches the back of his head and looks from the balls to the cue in his hand. He must be coming up with some elaborate strategy that'll have him scrambling. When he stands there for a good minute without budging, though, he decides to speak up.

"What?" Robin frowns. "You can go first."

"I..." He taps the rod on the side of the table. "...have actually never played this."

Robin blinks. "You've...never played?" He scoffs. "Been around the world and a half, but no pool?"

Behnam slowly frowns. It's a mild one, but considering how much he smiled it was actually startling. "You have quite a few expectations for complete strangers." He drawls, accent heavy and rolling. "I wonder what else you may think of me."

Robin's face grows hot with embarrassment. He runs fingers through his hair, trying to catch up to speed with his competitive nature and inconvenient tendency to be catty out of nowhere.

"Uh, here. It's pretty fun once you get the hang of it."

He walks around the table and positions himself halfway behind the man (he'd have to stand on his toes to look over his shoulder and that's absolutely a line he won't cross yet). He swallows a moment, then asks. "May I?"

Behnam studies him for a moment, then shrugs. "By all means."

Robin urges him into the proper stance by tweaking his elbows and posture. Not too hunched, not too stiff. His mother played the game almost religiously and every family gathering had at least a few games in-between celebrations. He even tells him as such, getting a small smile in return. Better than nothing.

He tries not to help overmuch throughout the game, feeling the boundary drawn up between him through his shitty comment, but soon competition has them ghosting around the table and looking for every angle to subdue the other.

He doesn't know how the man masters proper technique so damn quickly, but he _does_ know he doesn't want to lose at one of his _best_ games. He's actually tense when they hit up another tie, something that'll require every last ounce of desperation in his back pocket if he's to come out on top. He spots a potentially incredible move and leans forward so far his stomach's practically flat on the table, chewing on his lip as he takes aim...then Behnam winks at him. It distracts him so badly his hand slips and it sends the green ball he was so convinced was going to net him a good few points flying right off the table.

"Oh, I've got a great joke for this." Behnam says, looking over his shoulder to follow the ill-fated ball's clatter into the darkness.

"I don't want to hear it." Robin grumbles.

"Please, indulge me. I'll cry otherwise."

"...Yeah, I don't want to see that. All right, what is it?"

"Let's just say I'm..." He fists a hand in front of his mouth, eyes as mischievous as a fox's."... _incredibly_ impressed by your balls-to-the-wall strategy."

Robin groans and presses a hand to his forehead. Out of all the people to catch his interest, it was someone in love with shitty puns. Well, he wasn't about to look like a sore loser twice. Time to keep his word. Behnam lets him choose the restaurant, even as Robin insists that's more responsibility than he agreed to. After a surreptitious glance at his phone for which places would be open into the night, he picks The Blush Lounge. It's a bit ritzy, but he had an on-the-spot reputation to keep.

"Oh." Behnam breathes when they walk up to the entrance. "I am very glad I didn't wear sandals and shorts today."

"A sandal _and_ shorts guy, huh?" Robin responds with a smirk. The man shrugs mock-affectedly.

"I'm a father. It's practically law."

"Well, you look fine." Robin answers as he opens the door and they're flooded with rosy light. "More than fine."

He doesn't elborate on the string of dirty thoughts that's been marching into his brain for the past few hours like a Mardi Gras parade. No, he'd get to those later.

Their server is a real trooper as they take their time eating and refill their drinks more than once. The conversation is unlike so many he's had lately. It's not business-related. Far from stilted catch-ups with family. Just like the two of them it sort of travels wherever, stopping and starting again organically on topics of the decor, the future, where wine sauce originated (all the way back in the 14th century, apparently). Long walks, ping-pong and steak. He had to admit, this was the most fun he's had in months.

Behnam has a chin in his hand during a lull in the conversation, eyes flicking back and forth between the people across the way dancing. A strange spike of jealousy cuts through him, even though he can't tell what he's looking at, specifically.

"...Care for a dance?"

Robin blinks, forgets to chew, then coughs so hard he pounds his chest. There was being silly and letting loose, but that was too much, even for him. What, he was going to go out in front of dozens of people and make himself look like a complete twat in front of a catch like Behnam? He'd sooner balance his half-eaten steak on his head and put it through a selfie filter. He can see disappointment in Behnam's eyes, even something like concern, though, like usual, it's masterfully reigned back behind an easy smile.

"Don't let me badger you, Robin." It's the first time he's used his name. Shit, he...really wants to hear him say that again.

"No, it's...I'm just not..." Boring? A coward? Excuses twist his mouth awkwardly. What's the best thing to say?

"No, please. I've..." Behnam looks a touch self-conscious, rubbing the back of his head and tapping his fork on his plate in thought. "...made you uncomfortable more than once, I think. Really, I've had a very good time already."

Damn it all. Why was he here? He was here to relax. Even have a little fun before being sent right back to the legal rat race. Robin watches couples and triples mingling, swaying and chatting on the dance floor. Pretending like nothing else exists. When he thought about it, the fields of law and human resources was already a dance. A dance between maintaining a shred of dignity in the face of injustice and throwing any and all morals to the wind for survival. He could figure out how to turn that into a shimmy.

Robin shoves one last bite into his mouth, pushes back from the table, moves around so his back is facing the open space and holds a hand out to him.

"Consider this round three."

Behnam blinks owlishly up at him. Looks down at their plates. Then back up.

"Before you're finished?"

"Before I change my mind."

It's not an idle threat. Behnam chuckles, takes his hand and lets himself be led across the glittering floor. Even as they move backwards away from the others, finding their own little spot, he can still feel his chest trembling with hidden laughs.

"Come on. Clue me in on the joke." Robin mutters, watching his own feet closely as they shuffle back-and-forth in something-formal, something-casual. Last time he danced with someone was at his high school prom. The memory is filled with secondhand embarrassment. Not at all helping. At least the song wasn't crap. It's smooth and low-key, a bit jazzy, even, nothing like the grating club pop that was always blasting elsewhere.

"I don't think I've ever met someone so funny and so serious at the same time." Behnam says, placing hands on his hips and moving carefully away from a rather rambunctious pair on their right. They're swathed in a little pocket of shadow, helped by the man's broad back to the light, and it eases his nerves. At least he can only look like a tool to someone who didn't mind all that much.

"Never been called funny before." Robin hasn't been called a lot of things, if he was being honest, but he can't help but smile. Just a little. Behnam's brows quirk in response, a surprised and appreciative little furrow.

"Well." He hooks an arm around his waist. "I haven't known you very long at all, but your first impression is enviable." He moistens his lips a little, a movement Robin follows with studious attention. "Well-read. Quite the competitive spirit. Generous. ...I didn't miss that little tip you gave that haggard waitress."

"Generous." Robin actually laughs now, even if it's a humorless little moment of self-pity the man doesn't need to see. "You don't have to butter me up that much, c'mon now."

"First time for everything." Behnam responds smoothly. Alcohol's buzz still warm in the pit of his stomach, Robin picks out what's becoming his favorite details in the dim light catching in-between their movements. Those full lips always stretching into a smile. The laugh lines that deepen into grooves. Suddenly his mediocre dancing skills are the least thing on his mind.

"...Yeah." He says, leaning up to kiss him. "You got a point."

He's not a great kisser, not with his sexual experience about as complicated as the fine print on a loan, but Behnam either doesn't notice or doesn't care. He tilts his head in response, casual and interested and with lips softer than he could have imagined. He tastes like rum and laughter, something he could easily get used to. A brush of his tongue and he's responding in turn, tentatively at first, only for the kiss to turn wet and sloppy as his already blurred inhibitions proceed to melt away for good.

"My, you're a fast learner." Behnam purrs against his chin, hands wandering slyly down his sides and over the small of his back. He's now incredibly glad he didn't change into his casual clothes back at the hotel, because the man is not at all shy about his interest, trading all those little hints he's been dropping for straight-up lust. Robin was almost the polar opposite of him, lean and a little on the soft side since he stopped attending the gym. He didn't find himself necessarily unattractive (he knew how to dress himself, at least), but he was nothing like Behnam.

Even the homely scarf couldn't hide what his hands are starting to reveal inch by lustful inch, a hard and thick body that wouldn't be out of place in a fitness magazine. His arms are bulky, downright _swollen_ , and pair nicely with the slight paunch to his stomach. He's heavy, even with the careful way he leans over him in a physical consideration of his boundaries, and Robin wants nothing more than to feel that weight draped over him back at his hotel.

He's all calloused hands and soft clothes and hard angles. Every touch teaches him something new and leaves him with a dozen questions. Only when he pulls back to take a reluctant breath does he catch a touch of cologne mingling with the alcohol on his breath. He knows he's more than a little buzzed still when he shoves his nose against the man's closely cropped hair.

"You smell really... _really_ damn good."

Behnam squirms a little (he's ticklish, that's cute) and mimics him, nudging the curling strands around his ears aside to nuzzle down his jawline. "And you smell like..." A deeper breath, accompanied by a gentle kneading of teeth that has his knees weakening. "...mm. A _much_ better weekend than I could've anticipated."

He doesn't even care that people are starting to give them looks. It's liberating. For once, he just doesn't _care_.

"Come back to...with me...to my place." He hisses between his teeth when the man nudges apart his collar and bites into the crook of his shoulder. "My hotel. Room. My hotel room."

Then an alarm goes off. Robin looks around just as he hears a sharp _hiss_ and they're suddenly being sprayed with cold water from above.

"Agh, _shit!_ " He yelps. The clientele are fleeing as quickly as they can from the sprinklers, covering their heads with hands or books or whatever they can find in an attempt to protect their hair. Behnam has no such concern, not with his closely-cropped cut, instead just sputtering as he pulls him out of their little corner and leads him out by one hand into the open air. One of the servers, the one that had patiently attended them earlier, looks like she's near tears when they make it outside.

"I'm so, so, so sorry everyone." She apologizes. "There was a small fire in our back kitchen. Our fire alarm system is very sensitive, very sensitive. We will reimburse you for _any_ and all meals and drinks you ordered while he-"

It's hard for her to finish, what with customers snapping about their ruined clothes and unfinished meals. He feels a hot wave of anger wash over him. Urging Behnam to wait, he pushes his way through the small cluster.

"I'm so sorry, yes, I can absolutely issue a refund. A gift card is also in order-"

The waitress stiffens in surprise when Robin pulls out his wallet and, after shaking it off, hands her a $100 bill.

"You were an amazing host tonight." He says. "First time I've ever been, but you made us feel like regulars. Treat yourself to something nice once you clock off." The hubbub surrounding her melts down to moody murmurs and he thinks he catches one or two people looking away in embarrassment. Good.

Robin finds an open spot to lean on his knees and shake water from his hair onto the ground. He looks up through sopping bangs to see Behnam pulling off his soaked scarf and wringing it out like a rag. His olive skin has taken on a deeper shade in the evening light, a downright lovely and gentle brown, and he hopes like he's never hoped before that the man will want to pick up where they left off.

"Well." Behnam says after giving it a few good shakes. "I'm sober now."

"That makes two of us." Robin agrees. A cool breeze clings his shirt to his torso. It feels incredible after the sweltering day and warm restaurant. "First shower I've had in three days...which _is_ why I was confused why you said I smell good back there."

"What can I say, sweat and books make an enticing combo." He peers at the sunset behind one broad hand. "Feel like walking the rest of this water off?"

"Lead the way."

They make their way closer to the harbor where people are less congregated, instead leaning against railings or sunning themselves down on the beach. His (thankfully dry) phone buzzes again. He sighs, pulls it out and flicks through it. He sees the photo of a dog she sent, a huge and fluffy thing, as well as a few text messages asking about his health. Now wasn't the time to tell her about stress turning his insides into a paper mache project, so a _very_ abridged version would have to do.

"Is everything all right?" Behnam asks, scarf tossed over one shoulder like a sash.

"Yeah." Robin answers as he types a quick, guilty response. "My mother. She...worries."

"Yes." He murmurs, looking at something in the distance. "Mothers are that way."

Their stroll through the crooked, sloping hills of downtown is a quiet one. The walking gap between them grows increasingly smaller, the tiny space charged with an intensity that feels ready to pop. They discuss things on-and-off -- the best place to drink a good coffee (Behnam's quite adamant nothing will ever top an experience he had in Ethiopia), whether or not a proposed bill will actually bring positive results for the city's notoriously high homeless population (something Robin rants at length about). All the while he soaks in the attention glinting in his eyes. How he always seem to be studying him like an old photo. 

He's not drunk anymore, but he thinks he's starting to enjoy a different sort of buzz when they finally return to his room. Sex work was a business like anything else, all strict dates and quick sessions in-between long work days. Dates were more...formal luxuries. This man was somewhere in-between, an element difficult to pin down with an easy smile and flowery words, and Robin is as excited as he is apprehensive when they step inside together.

Any other time he'd offer him a drink and make some small talk. They've cleared those stages already with flying colors, so instead he's being pushed against the wall and being given a personal tour of the man's size. Now that nobody's around to stare Behnam's restraint has bit the dust. He boxes him in-between his thick arms, returns to the crook of his throat to suck marks into his skin. It makes him hiss in pain, causing him to lap at the area with a hot tongue and murmur apologies.

"Sorry, was that too-"

"No, no, you're fine, that's fine, keep-"

"You're just, _damn_ -, I want to-"

Robin finds his mouth again, that unbelievable mouth he'd been eyeing for _hours_ , and bites and tugs like he's fit to pull it straight off. Presses a hand against the back of Behnam's head to keep him there when he threatens to wander. Behnam matches him eagerly, twisting a hand in his hair and angling his head back to dip his tongue in and out. There was something to be said about making out with someone that used to be married. The passion leaves him weak in the knees.

Words grow tangled in-between panting breaths, little more than scattered animal noises as they paw and rut against each other. Somewhere in his haze he remembers clothes are a terrible idea and starts to tug Behnam's jacket down his arms. Distantly he notes the man's brief moment of hesitance, a hitch in their shared movement, but he's too aroused to dwell.

"Here, bed is over here-"

A few pops of buttons and hasty squirming and he's on his back in his briefs, vest and slacks and whatever the hell else he had on him left in a drunken spill on the carpet. Dusk barely filters through the half-closed blinds and he mentally pummels himself for not turning on the light, as he can only just make out Behnam's nude form when he joins him on the mattress.

"Here, lemme turn on the light-" He mutters, impulsively. "Can't see a thing." Behnam straddles him and Robin can't figure out whether to focus on how damn _thick_ his thighs are or the bulging heat digging into his stomach.

"You were saying?" Behnam rumbles. His plan short-circuits, then and there. Robin shakes his head and moves his mouth up his chest.

"Nothing, forget it..." He licks his nipple, holds it in his mouth for a moment, then pauses. "...Hey, what..." He mutters, lips rising and dipping over a bumpy ridge between his pec and shoulder. "What happened here?"

"Just some old injuries." The tone in his voice makes him sit up a little, as best he can with the man still curled over him. Deja vu, again, tickles the back of his mind. "Cage fighting leaves a pretty souvenir." The sunlight outside dips and makes the shadows flicker around them. One, two, three, four, _five_...the man is covered in them. Big, small, all over his torso in what he imagines is a pretty stunning sight with the lamp on.

"Wow. Do they...hurt...?" Robin realizes belatedly how silly that sounds, they're _scars_ , they've already healed, but Behnam shakes his head slowly.

"Not in that way." He kisses him, softer this time, and Robin hesitates at the tender press of swollen flesh. Might've bit him too hard. Behnam lets him slip his tongue in instead, slackens his jaw and lets him explore for a moment before murmuring, "I'll bore you with my stories later."

"Sure. Sure." He mumbles into his mouth. "Did you want me to...?"

"To what?"

"Shit. Blow you, fuck you, what?"

"Well, what do you want?"

Robin pulls back, puffs his bangs out of his eyes and looks up at him.

"We gonna rock-paper-scissors over this?" He asks wryly. Behnam's grin could charm the wings off a dove. Damn it, he might actually agree to that. Robin feels unsteady and aimless, now, and he doesn't like it.

"Just tell me what you want me to do, Behnam."

His throat grows bone-dry at the lust darkening the man's eyes as he leans down and mouths at his bottom lip. Holds it between his teeth before repeating.

"What do you _want_ , Robin. I want to please you."

Those little hints breaking through like the light in the blinds. The larger personality held down through jokes and a light attitude. He sputters a laugh, a disbelieving one, and Behnam just leans on his elbows and stares down at him with those big, dark (gray? brown?) eyes. Waiting.

"...Truthfully?"

"Truthfully."

"I've wanted you to fuck me the moment I laid eyes on you." Robin glances to the side, then back again. "Also, your accent is sexy as hell."

"Now that's more like it." A flash of teeth. "I like yours, too."

He has to sort through a few different condoms to accommodate the man, something that has him roiling in a weird mix of mortification and eagerness as he tries to roll one on only to toss it, then another. Behnam is cheeky all the while, clearly enjoying the attention as he leans against the headboard loose-limbed and relaxed. He becomes considerably less so when Robin runs a tongue up his shaft to celebrate the one that fits. His usual inhibitions have become so muddy over the past few hours. It feels almost like who he'd rather be.

Behnam, not even a day's acquaintance in, was a wrecking ball tied up in a pretty red bow.

"Talk to me." He murmurs as Robin slicks himself up. He can see in the twitch of his rigid cock that he's the kind that likes to watch. "Tell me what you need."

"Not a huge talker." Robin says, adding a third finger and enjoying how Behnam's chest flutters with shallower breaths. "You can ramble as much as you like, though." He swings his leg over and settles over him proper. Even through the latex the man is hot and hard, a pleasant weight pressing into the cleft of his ass.

"Ramble?" He says as he prods against him, nudges in tortuously slow inches. "That's what you're calling it?"

"You could read the phonebook and I could beat off to it." Robin groans, hips twitching down in fitful rebellion. " _Don't_ ask me if it's a fetish. I can tell you want to ask."

"I'm getting predictable." His voice is coarse now, hardly more than a whisper and hardly halfway in. "I'll have to shake it up."

Robin knows better than to rush, not with this length, but _fuck_ he's going to go crazy at this snail's pace. He digs his knees into the plush blanket and pushes a hand onto Behnam's hip to ease himself down, even as the man puts a cautious hand on his stomach, and lets out a breathless gasp when he finally bottoms out.

"... _Damn._ " Is all Behnam manages to say now, face flushed deep and breathing out sharp pants through his nose.

It's a fleeting little moment of trust as he starts to move, trusting this not-quite-stranger below him not to go too hard _yet_ , not with every movement making him feel like he's being pulled inside out and pushed together again.

He likes to hold his gaze. It's more intimate than Robin's used to. It makes his stomach knot up, instinctively makes him turn his eyes to the side or just a little to the left and _fuck_ he probably looks shy or inexperienced or both. But somehow his eyes are dragged back time and time again to be held in limbo as he bobs up and down, rocks them both into a rhythm that eats away at his emotional distance with every stroke.

Behnam's broad hands drag down his shoulder blades to his sides, nearly swallow his hips whole, grip the skin near to bruising and tug him down as he leans up and almost _off_ the mattress in stiff thrusts. Every time it seems too much, _is_ too much, has him gritting his teeth and beading sweat, he brushes against him in such a way he's actually _whimpering_. He can vividly feel every clench around him, body _still_ trying to reason with his size, and each time the man groans like his soul is leaving him.

A splash of bright light carves out Behnam's face, his flushed skin and arched neck a vision in orange when he reaches his climax. Robin tries not to crush his eyes shut, wants to fucking _stare_ at the beautiful man bucking through his orgasm, but the sensation of Behnam swelling and hardening deep inside him is enough to drive him over the edge.

Somewhere in-between his sharp cry and exhausted slump Behnam pushes his sweat-soaked hair away and mouths at his earlobe.

"... _Lovely_."

The afterglow leaves them in a sticky, boneless heap. Clean-up is a sluggish affair. It's only his meticulous nature that has him leaning off the bed to grab the trash can as well as something to mop them off. Behnam asks him if he can smoke inside. He'd normally say no, but he can't bear to break the skin-to-skin contact any longer than necessary. So he suffers through the sour stench of the cigarette in the close room, though it's made a little easier by the musk clinging to the man's sweaty neck.

For once he doesn't feel a care in the world...and that scares him more than anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody else still add in a few edits even when they're two seconds away from posting? 
> 
> Let's introduce ourselves and call it Last-Minute Editors Anonymous.
> 
>  
> 
> finally editing my fanfic summary, too, I'm so overdue on that


	40. Lost At Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for suicide mention and domestic violence mention.

Their weekend was over. Although they trade a few quick kisses in-between getting dressed and double-checking their belongings, they had to spend more time getting ready for their inevitable trips back to their own lives.

He'd tried to call his mother, but she didn't pick up. Probably still asleep. He was disappointed even still, leaving him little choice but to take the spare moment in-between sending her a text on his phone and finding his aftershave to think about how clingy he'd become over the past twenty-four hours. Robin glances at the man's back as he rubs at his scars and stares at the mirror with a self-conscious sigh. Maybe he'd never figure out what made him seem so familiar.

"Do you have a razor I could use?" Behnam asks, pulling out a small tube of shaving cream from the vanity. Robin reaches into his bag and tosses it to him.

"Shame. I like your five-o-clock."

"Yes, well." The man chuckles, wiping it along his jaw and chin before carefully starting on his left cheek. "I'm afraid my bosses don't."

_"Bane."_

_"...Robin?"_

_"Where did you go?"_

_He's talking in his sleep. Vague rambles that his half-lucid mind starts to catch up with far too late, when he opens his eyes and feels Behnam's stiff posture. He mutters some sort of meaningless apology and gets out of bed, as much to escape the embarrassment as get himself moving. He's full of weird energy and he has no idea why._

_"Are you okay...?" The man rumbles from the bed as he paces back and forth. Judging by the still-slurred affect to his words he's got his face pushed against the pillow._

_"Sorry to wake you up." He stretches out a crook from his back, then glances at the clock. Two in the morning. "...Great."_

_"...Didn't answer my question." He doesn't sound too chuffed about it, but something about the comment stings. Behnam was probably wondering why his one-night stand was having one hell of a fever dream about his wrestling persona. The dream has faded, snatched away like a puff of smoke on the wind, and the only thing that's left is a bizarre, agonizing longing. Like he just missed the opportunity of a lifetime._

_"Not trying to freak you out, I swear." Robin sighs, running hands over the back of his head to then knit his fingers behind his neck. "I've been feeling off ever since I got here." ___

____

_"I think...people can be too invested in maintaining face." The kindness in his voice hurts. It was nothing like how he treated him yesterday, all judgmental and challenging and struggling to do something as normal as spending time with a person. "So you had a strange dream. Happens to all of us." He chuckles sleepily. "Wouldn't be the first time someone yelled out my stage name."_

____

_"You're a regular saint, Behnam." He feels himself starting to withdraw. The man rolls onto his back and, although the city lights from outside barely glint through the bottom of the blinds, he can tell he's watching him. He wants to go to him, drape himself over his broad chest and explore the scars peppered around his skull with his mouth. He can't, though. Not with how strung out and lousy he feels._

____

_"You don't have to trust me. Not after a day of drinking and pool." The bed creaks again. "...If you want to join me again, though...I wouldn't mind at all."_

____

_Robin looks back at him. He feels stripped bare, an insect under a microscope, and just about in control. He shifts from foot-to-foot. Listens to the occasional car rumbling below. It's a few minutes before he works up the nerve to speak again._

____

_"You ever...feel lost at sea?" He whispers into the dark. "Like no matter how hard you swim you're going to be pulled in another direction anyway?" At first he thinks the man fell asleep in that time. Then a soft huffing noise responds. The man shifts in the blankets again, getting comfortable as he mulls over the question._

____

_"Every other day." Behnam murmurs. "I think that goes for most folk."_

____

_It's a minor admittance. Nothing that'd impress a priest at confession. Yet something in him gives, slouching his shoulders and leaving him truly, properly tired again. He takes a short trip to the bathroom (mindful to give his mouth a quick rinse to avoid morning breath) before crawling back into bed with him. Behnam is large and warm and reciprocating when he fills in the gaps with his arms and legs. Guess he'd have to add cuddling with a stranger onto his very sudden and increasingly long list of things he didn't do._

__

_They talk a little bit more. More him than Behnam, really. Robin doesn't mind when he fills in the space instead with slow, easy kisses. Lazy trails from his throat to his chin to the dip behind his ear. Eventually to his mouth to linger when the words become about as tired. A physical conversation that kneads him soft enough to finally sleep._

__

They're both morning people, already bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and commenting on the hotel's customer service as Robin checks out at the front desk.

__

"No, let me handle the tip. I'm the one that got the room." Robin says as he pulls out his wallet. Not just the front desk, but the dutiful maids who had to likely air out the room from his guest's robust cigarette habit. Behnam gives him a look, not putting his away.

__

"But they allowed me to stay overnight." He protests. "That _must_ be against policy."

__

"Hence why _I'm_ giving them a bigger tip." Robin responds smoothly.

__

"Never stiffing blue-collar workers." Behnam sighs, stuffing his wallet in his back pocket. "You need a superhero title."

__

Robin is met with a strange sight once they go outside. Three birds with little orange chests sitting on the lamp together. He's not sure why it catches his attention, but suddenly he can't look anywhere else. He pulls out his phone to take a photo, but something startles all three into flying into the air and beyond the trees.

__

"I suppose this is where we part ways." Behnam says, shivering as the cold morning breeze sweeps around them. Somewhere in-between dinner and sex he had mentioned the city was just a brief weekend stop before dedicating himself to a few weeks' worth of traveling and teaching -- he had to catch his plane at the downtown hub while Robin was going by train. He could just ask the man for his number, sneak in another kiss and call it a success. But whatever he tasted over the past day is something he doesn't want to let go of.

__

"Come to think of it, you didn't bore me with one of your stories." Robin shoves his phone back into his pocket and tries to spot the birds again even though they're long gone.

__

"I still could. I don't have to board until later this afternoon." Behnam says, only to quickly glance at him like he's said something embarrassing. "Unless-"

__

"No, no." Robin interrupts. "I'd like that." His voice flattens more characteristically. "Beats listening to a schmuck on the tram telling me about all the different ways I'm going to Hell, anyway."

__

"Oh, you met him too?" Behnam laughs. "I'm glad I'm a notch above bus preachers."

__

"I mean, that's a low bar to clear." Robin admits. Behnam nods at this and he can't help but add, "But I can always find out more genuine flaws on our next date." It's an intentionally flippant comment to mask the fact he actually took the plunge and _said_ it. He's already pummeling himself for opening his ridiculous mouth. The brilliant smile that lights up Behnam's face, however, makes the nervousness much easier to bear.

__

While the hotel food was competent (competent being the _key_ word), he wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to eat some genuinely memorable grub before leaving. So they grab a quick bite to eat at a nearby cafe. Like most of the businesses in the area it was likely family-owned, meaning it was expensive, nicely decorated and well worth the money. It's now he finally gets to learn how the hell a seemingly well-adjusted history teacher and archaeologist got swept up in cage fighting, of all things.

__

"It was a complete accident, really." Behnam is buttoning up his collar as he eyes the menu -- he was clearly a fan of hotter weather. "I'd been watching one of the matches after I'd left Cancun. Needed something to fill up my evening. Ended up getting a little rowdy in there, too much tequila for cheap, you know how it is. One particular fellow wouldn't stop bumping into me where I sat and I sort of, uh...lost my temper."

__

"You didn't...?" Robin presses, horrified. Behnam blinks down at him.

__

"Oh, goodness, no. I told him I'd give him $20 if he'd stop and called him a few things I'd rather not repeat."

__

"...Oh." It's a weird mix of disappointment and relief. He orders himself an Earl Grey and one of their bagels -- the scent of toasted bread and herb cheeses is making his mouth water. "Then what?"

__

"Then he slugged me in the face and told me to stop being a..." Behnam purses that beautiful mouth in thought. "You know, I don't think I'll repeat that here, either."

__

"Considering the venue, I can harbor a few guesses." Robin mutters, tossing a tip into the jar and finding them a spot to sit. He normally prefers somewhere a bit more quiet, but he doesn't have to actually start working once he's at the court house. The paperwork is done. The meetings are done. It was just a matter of signing and taking the plunge. The folder in his bag feels like it weighs a ton and he has to focus hard on Behnam's lively accent to avoid sinking into a bad temper.

__

"I'd just gotten off a rather disappointing meeting with my funders, so I was already operating on a short fuse. That town would have been _perfect_ for research, it was practically untouched and we could've stimulated the local business...anyway." Behnam is saying, hands folded in front of him. Even in casual wear he looks scholarly. "So I returned the favor and before I knew it two tables had been broken clean in half and I'd racked up a $1,200 bill on damages and liquor." He smiles fondly. "One of the best memories of the past three years, if I'm being honest."

__

"But how'd that translate into you doing cage matches?" Robin blows on his tea. "Though I imagine it can't be hard for someone that looks like you, _shtarker_."

__

" _Shtarker_?" Behnam repeats, brows quirking curiously. His pronunciation is spot-on. "What's that?"

__

"A beefcake." Robin puts his chin in one hand and glances at his arms, bulging even in his thick coat. "Go on. How?"

__

"Someone took a video and it went viral. I started receiving offers within the week by both the place I helped wreck and another venue the next city over." Behnam thanks the waitress who brings over his food. "Few months later it kickstarted a side hustle for me and got that fellow into a load of trouble. Icing on the cake, really." His grin looks almost savage before he takes a large bite of his sandwich and lets out an appreciative moan.

__

"And the title?"

__

"A commenter said I must've been the bane of that man's existence." Another bite. "It stuck."

__

Robin laughs so hard he chokes and he spends a good two and a half minutes hacking into his hand as not to disturb the cafe. Behnam has to remind him to _chew_ the food he paid for, even as he's snickering into his shoulder at his reaction. He insists on seeing that viral video. Even with the sound low and the quality a little dingy, the man's ferocity is alarming. He doesn't just punch the offender, he straight-up picks him up and _drops_ him on the next table. A person in the corner of the video (a friend of the recorder, it seems) howls excitedly into the camera and exclaims they got more than what they paid for.

__

"Phew." Robin thumbs away a tear, still catching his breath. "Remind me never to get on your bad side." It's a joke, or at least intended as such, but Behnam's smile fades a little.

__

They eventually reach the topic of his latest case. It was inevitable, what with Behnam being so damn easy to talk to (he really should be worried about that, come to think of it) and his emotions on the subject running the gamut of apprehensive to despondent. His story wasn't going to be nearly as charming. He almost wants to apologize beforehand, but he stops himself. The only ones that should be apologizing were the incompetent assholes in charge.

__

"So, a kid caught in...a lot of trouble." He starts in-between bites. "I'm trying to get them out of it."

__

' _Girl named Isabela caught in possession of drugs at school._ ' He thinks as he washes the food down with tea. ' _Probably just found it laying on the damn street because we have more drug dealers than we do judges or officers who give a shit in this city. She's facing five years in juvenile court when she should be enjoying the rest of her childhood, but all I can do is hope arbitration does their job because I'm neither experienced enough nor rich enough to make those with power turn the other cheek._ '

__

"They don't come from money, which are the kinds of cases I'm given because I'm still technically the new guy. I actually live just up north, but I thought I'd come down here because I knew it'd be more involving than my other ones. That...and I needed to get out of the house." He shrugs. "Anyway, kid's mother had a difficult time communicating with some of the other lawyers, so she was all but bummed off on me. She's an immigrant. English is decent, but she has a very strong accent. I probably don't need to spell the rest out." Behnam nods slowly. He likely knew far better than he did.

__

_"I can provide an interpreter."_

__

_It's only when she enters his office for the first time does he realize how plain it is. She's dressed head-to-toe in a beautiful green and blue dress, probably handmade, and a few bracelets flash life along her brown wrists. It's a stark contrast against the beige walls and minimalist furniture. He should at least get a plant or something._

__

_"I don't have money." She's agitated, been agitated the entire time, trying to keep herself together even as her leg bobs with excess energy. "I can't buy a...an interpreter. My daughter speaks for me. Her English is very good."_

__

_"I'm afraid that qualifies as a conflict of interest. I'm sure she's great at both languages, but interpreters provide us professional conduct and a strict policy of confidentiality." He has to walk her through the term and explain how it could land them both in worse hot water...only for him to then have to explain the meaning of the idiom he just used. He's appreciating the art of translation more and more by the second. "I can pay for one. It's no trouble. There are many in the area."_

__

_"No, I can't pay you. I can't pay." He doesn't understand what she means at first...then it clicks. She can't pay him back. He remembers to smile. 'Professionalism isn't a one-size-fits-all,' Barbara had told him once over lunch. 'Show them you care.'_

__

_"...That's fine." Robin tells her. "That's fine."_

__

Behnam is respectful of confidentiality and doesn't press for further details, content to let him vague-speak. The concern in his eyes, though, feels genuine. It remains long after they finish up their meals, leave the cafe and make their way to a bus stop.

__

"Did you know a sentence can almost double with a single extra ounce of any illegal substance?" Robin asks as they walk. Behnam shakes his head. "Yeah. What could seem like a little extra courtesy from a dealer or a stroke of good luck could end up stacking on the years in a cell. I want to fight for the decriminalization of drugs, but there's a lot I still can't do in my position."

__

"Portugal recently passed a bill decriminalizing drug use." Behnam says. "Country has, coincidentally, seen a severe decrease in jail time done."

__

"All right, I have to ask." Robin asks. " _Are_ you from Portugal?"

__

"No." Behnam lets Robin embarrass himself with a few more wrong guesses before smugly commenting on the weather.

__

_He's helped in issues relating to child custody, juvenile court and, once, domestic violence. It's not until his third meeting does he realize exactly what he's dealing with._

__

_"She is sad, a lot of times." Maria speaks slowly, with emphasis on each word. "She, she...she sometimes hurts her. Her...arm. She can't go to a jail. She can't."_

__

_"Is she mentally ill?" Robin asks. Her eyes narrow in confusion. He wills himself to be patient and tries again. "Is she sick, Maria?"_

__

_"No, no." Maria starts, hastily, only to suddenly stop and wring her hands. "...Yes. Yes, Isabela is sick. She is very sick."_

__

Behnam offers him a bite of the pastry he brought from the cafe. Robin politely refuses. Even if he were a sweets person, just the thought of what he's looking forward to has made him feel a little ill.

__

He wants to rant and rave about how powerless he feels. That he spent years racking up sleepless nights and making social sacrifice after social sacrifice just so he could not just make something of himself, but do something _good_. But he can't. They're surrounded by people waiting for the bus. His case is confidential and he's already toed the line of professionalism and Behnam's still a stranger even when he wants him so, _so_ badly not to be.

__

"...They would just snip the rest of their childhood away." He finishes instead. "Can't even be a kid while they still are one."

__

"You may not think it's a major impact..." Behnam leans against the railing. "...but what you're doing is making the world a slightly better place."

__

"You reading between the lines again?" Robin asks, sighing as the wind ruffles the sweat from his hairline. He glances in his phone mirror to fix his bangs.

__

"Perhaps." Behnam admits. "Though...if you're up to sharing...what had you pursue this field to begin with?" His scarf is back on, though his coat is buttoned up in the still-chilly morning. He watches him navigate the rest of his pastry with care. Behnam licks a smudge of powdered sugar off his thumb, then raises his eyebrows curiously at his silence. Right. Sharing. He could do that.

__

"I'd always thought I'd go for civil court cases once I finished college." He chuckles at Behnam's expression. "Yeah, it seemed to suit me. I'm good at organizing, not too bad at math and can apparently bark a mean order, but...well." He waits as people bustle past them and get seated. "It was a happy accident, actually. I hadn't picked a specialty, so I decided to go for a case involving a kid in trouble with their family for a place to start. It...changed everything."

__

The bus arrives and they all pile on. The driver announces the downtown destination, double-checks the doors, then peels off.

__

_It's not until the fifth, and last, meeting Maria brings her daughter._

__

_Isabela always looks at her feet. Quiet like her mother, but without the stern backbone. A small tween in a pink dress and dirty sneakers. She reminded him of...himself. At least, who he used to be._

__

_Whatever people said of him now, and it was plenty, was nothing compared to what he got when he was a boy. Always ducking behind one family member or another during family outings. Having a hard time making friends when he went to school because he was either burying his nose in a book or being pushed around behind the gym where nobody could see. One of those kids that wouldn't be out of place in a family comedy filled with stereotypes._

__

_Somewhere along the line, though, he had enough. He became an adult and went from 'pussy' to 'hardass'. 'Pushover' to 'nag'. 'Chickenshit' to 'pokerface'. He doesn't want this girl to end up like him. Toughening up only to show cracks later like old leather under the sun because there was no other choice._

__

_"Hello, Isabela." Robin considers dusting off his college Spanish lessons, then thinks better of it. He needed to look trustworthy, not incompetent. "How are you?"_

__

_She shifts from foot-to-foot and just stares at the ground. He's not very good with kids. He grew up an only child and was considered atypical among his classmates even at a young age. She glances at her mother with big dark eyes, short even for fourteen years old, and seems unsure of where to start._

__

_"Your mother and I have been talking about what happened." Robin continues, filling the silence with words until she feel comfortable enough to start. "I'm here to help. Whatever you need help with during the proceedings, your schooling or your extracurriculars, I'll be talking with your mother to make sure it all works out."_

__

_"...Am I..." Isabela starts. He leans forward a little, glad she's talking, only to feel his heart sink. "...going to jail?"_

__

It's easy to fall into the smooth monotony of the bus. He doesn't feel it often, but it's a welcome salve for his nerves. He sees the courthouse out the window. A gray dome just beyond the hills, serene and foreboding. He'd rather be anywhere else, but his sense of duty squares up his shoulders and sets a hard line in his jaw.

__

"I had a good childhood." Robin says. "My mother's a teacher. Dad's a nurse. _Savta_ 's retired, but she used to be an artist. Always had a community to look after me, even when I fell off the ball with school and had to get my GED." Behnam is patiently listening, but he can see in his eyes he's not sure where he's going with this.

__

He pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts. "I thought about kids who couldn't even go to school because they were living in terror from their own parents. The ones who managed to go, only to end up dropping out months later because of mental illness nobody took the time to treat. All the kids who have bad childhoods and are expected to cart that with them to college or when starting a family. It wasn't fair...I was a lucky one."

__

Behnam's eyes dawn in understanding -- a little too much, he thinks, then he remembers, of course. He has two daughters. He reaches out and presses one large hand to his shoulder.

__

"Then let those reasons be your beacon, when all other lights flicker out." He says, pulling back and leaving a warm ache in his wake. "Yours seems a very sturdy guide."

__

Robin manages a small smile.

__

They pull up downtown in good time. He's got a few minutes to spare before they need to split ways. They do the typical small-talk dance, commenting on what they're going to be doing for the next few weeks, basic remarks on how good the food was at the Blush Lounge. Then Behnam pulls him in for a kiss, hand on the back of his head, and he's pretty sure he's blushing for the first time in years.

__

"I had fun, Robin." He says against his mouth. Robin isn't into public displays of affection, but he holds onto his lip between his teeth for a fleeting moment -- it makes his next words just a little hoarse. "I'll keep in touch."

__

"Send me photos of your expedition." He says, trying not to pop a damn boner with a thousand eyes around them. Did the man's accent _have_ to be so sexy? "If your students aren't covered head-to-toe in dust I'll have to write you off as a hack."

__

"Thank you for the warning." Behnam says, mock-seriously. "I'll make sure to take some _very_ candid snapshots."

__

Robin smirks, about to say something clever, before he freezes at the sight of Maria over Behnam's shoulder. She's wearing a long red dress and sandals. The dust on her hem and the frizz pushing out of her ponytail suggest she's been walking in the growing humidity for quite some time. He puts on a professional air, even as something doesn't feel quite right.

__

"Maria." He starts. Why was she here? "Good to see you."

__

"I need to talk." Her dark eyes shoot to Behnam, assessing him quickly, then back to him. "It's very important."

__

"This probably isn't a good place to do so." Robin frowns. "Are you all right?"

__

"I need to talk now." She repeats. "...Please."

__

Behnam shifts uncomfortably, clearly aware he's in a strange spot. Her eyes flick again to Behnam, then back to him. He's never seen her like this. Every meeting they've had, from its inception nearly two months ago, she's been the very image of calm. A reasonable, if severe, mother caught between a rock and a hard place. More willing to listen than to speak, even when he encouraged her to share details so he could help her and her daughter better.

__

"Maria, I will do everything in my power to make sure Isabela gets a shorter sentence." He begins, urging her to move a little further away from the trickle of people coming out of the bus. "I am heading back to the courthouse now to finalize-"

__

"She is dead."

__

Robin blinks.

__

"What...what are you talking about?" He manages after a moment's blistering silence. Behnam opens his mouth to speak and he shoots him a quelling look. "Maria, what are you _talking_ about?"

__

"I _said_ she hurt her. Cuts. She did too many." Her hands are shaking, gripping her purse. "She is my only daughter. She is _dead_ now."

__

Robin gapes. He cut down her sentence. Isabela had five years to look forward to originally. He got it down to three. He was going to get it down to one. He was going to look after her the _entire_ time she was in there and the very second she was _out_. He was going to ensure she was able to meet the already high standards of the job market, the housing market, the...no. She can't be.

__

He slowly raises his hands at the knife she pulls from her dress pocket.

__

"Maria." He stammers, hastily. "Maria, listen to me."

__

"You are all the same. The worst." She waves it, clumsily, hand trembling with violent spasms. "You don't care. _Hijo de puta, todos los abogados- _"__

_____ _

People are looking at them now. Behnam pushes him back with one arm, holding out the other in an attempt to appease. His heart skips a beat. He can't involve him in this. The knife is mere feet away from leaving one or both of them a chalk drawing on the pavement.

_____ _

"Ma'am, please, don't _do_ this-" Behnam is saying, trying to put himself between him and Robin. He tries to push him to the side. The bastard doesn't even budge. " _Puedo hablar con-_ "

_____ _

"No, _stop_ , get back, damn you." Robin says in an angry rush. "I have this under control-"

_____ _

Behnam looks back at him, jaw set and not budging an inch. "Robin, don't move, I have experience with-"

_____ _

" _Malparido!_ "

_____ _

He doesn't register the man gripping his stomach until he's backing away. Only when the hot sting of blood soaks into his jeans does reality catch up to speed.

_____ _

"Oh god." Robin whispers, staring at the dark stains growing on the leg of his jeans. "Oh _god_."

_____ _

Behnam looks at the knife growing out of his stomach, then slowly, horribly, sinks to the ground. Maria takes a fumbling step away, then two, shocked and horrified and raising her hands to her hair. It's dead silent for three slow, ticking seconds. Then the air is filled with screaming.

_____ _

People are surrounding them in a rush. Someone holds out their phone. So does another. Then another. The buses have stopped, drivers peering out and gesturing to each other to stay in the area. Robin feels his entire body alternating between numb flashes and hot rage.

_____ _

"What are you doing? Call an ambulance!" Robin screams. " _Hurry!_ "

_____ _

He can't pull the knife. He'll bleed out. But he can't just watch him lay there, trying and failing to fucking _breathe_. His college first aid classes seem a joke as he kneels on the concrete and watches Behnam curl weak fingers around the knife's hilt. Not taking it out. Almost marveling at the fact it's there at all.

_____ _

"This is...this is..." Behnam coughs, tries to take in a deep breath, then coughs again. "O-Okay..."

_____ _

"Help is on the way. _Don't_ talk. Don't move." Robin looks around frantically. Maria is gone. At least, he thinks she is. There are so many people around them he doesn't know where to look first. His heart doesn't even feel like it's beating. A stone in his chest. What does he _do?_

_____ _

"Lael, tell her..." Another, wetter cough. "She's my ex-wife-"

_____ _

He starts to feel sick. Just two seconds away from retching out everything they had the cafe just hours ago. Robin leans away with a hand over his mouth, but he doesn't want to pull away. Not with Behnam looking so _scared_ , the soft brown in his skin draining to pale even as he's putting on a shaky smile for his sake.

_____ _

"I'm sorry..." Robin says, even as the words make him dizzy. "I shouldn't have made you stay. I should've let you go-"

_____ _

The faded evening blue melts into a choking gray. The people crowding them have fallen into shadow, black silhouettes leaning against heavy clouds, and the air feels too cold. Their voices are muffled. Why is everything so quiet? _Where_ is the ambulance? He looks down at Behnam. Opens his mouth to say he's so goddamn _sorry_...

_____ _

"Hey! I think he's awake!"

_____ _

Blake's eyes snap open. No, his eye. The other is swollen shut. He takes in a weak, freezing breath. His lungs feel like he's smoked a pack, but the way his limbs twitch suggest he hasn't touched one in a long damn time. The crust of blood itches his nose. Everything is...wet. Cold. It might have rained. There's a strange weight on his chest. One by one sensations fall into place, even as he's not entirely sure he isn't dead.

_____ _

" _Bobeshi..._?"

_____ _

"Oh, thank the Lord." The voice says. "I wasn't sure if I needed to call an ambulance or not..."

_____ _

He blinks blearily. Who...? He tries to sit up, but his body feels like a cement block. He instead cranes his neck to the side ( _fuck_ , that hurts) to better look at the older woman peering from underneath her umbrella with his good eye. The light drizzle against the morning sun frames her like a halo. Yeah. He's definitely dead.

_____ _

"Dog wouldn't let me near." She's saying. Her accent, it's subtle, but...was he in East End? "Stayed by your side. Are you, uh, all right, dear? Do I need to call anybody...?"

_____ _

Dog? _What_ dog? Where the hell was he even...no, he had to help Behnam. He was still bleeding out. If they didn't get him help soon...wait. Behnam? No, Bane. No, Behnam. The contradictory thoughts claw at each other for dominance. He shifts again and finally figures out why he can't move. A big dog is laying halfway on his chest. A familiar white face looks down at him, pink tongue lolling cheerfully to one side.

_____ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: "How many references and foreshadowing can I fit into a chapter?"
> 
> Me To Me: "Hold my beer...and for the love of God, don't _drink_ it-"


	41. Patience Is A Virtue

There were many places to be. Talia al Ghul was nothing if not flexible.

Rubio drove her out of the city immediately. There was no time to linger, not even to catch her investors up to speed on her sudden disappearance. It had been an impressive gamble literally blowing up the storm drains to get to her -- one wrong explosion could have seen _her_ grave made out of Gotham's rubble. A few League members under Bane's command had been killed in the process, another handful likely injured. While Dr. Pavel had eluded them, they had managed to snatch the crocodile man in the chaos. All in all, she had been pleased, if not actually impressed, with Rubio's competence.

"What of the others?" She had asked. "Bane still has superior numbers on his side, though I can't imagine it will be for long. We will need everyone at their best."

"They'll meet us. ...Who's left, anyway." Rubio been haggard and pale, clearly overwhelmed by what had transpired over the past few days. "We just need to get out."

She didn't like his tone. So she pressed for details until she got them and found out that Bane had succumbed to the collapse of the construction site that held the reactor secret. It had been her idea in the first place to use remote-controlled bombs, both to encourage more loyal behavior as well as to properly dispose of those no longer useful. Finding out Bane could have been killed (he would survive, she _knew_ he would) by Rubio's careless hand...well. It hadn't been a snap decision, yes, but not a difficult one.

Once they reached a rest stop she slipped a knife between his ribs and left his body to cool beneath one of the parked cars. She could have detonated the bombs inside him, but she'd always found personal deaths much more satisfying. Like father, like daughter.

There are barely two dozen under her command now, but Talia had learned to make much out of very little. She would have little trouble sway more noble savants and downtrodden dissenters to her cause. Alongside Jonathan Crane's unique talents, it was all she needed to carry out a little misery through Gotham before its demise. It was the slow knife that cut the deepest, after all, and she had always been very, very, very patient.

Like a charm she reaches into her pocket and strokes the stone knife Bane made for her all those years ago in the pit.

It's a humble abode where her green mercenaries work, a cottage bordering Metropolis where they, and she, can watch the city from a safe-yet-close distance. She kneels in front of the crocodile man. It's a beautifully hideous thing, human and beast, and she marvels at the glitter of its scales wrapped around every inch of its body like a skintight suit. Its chains have been doubled. While she was confident in her ability to survive, she wasn't foolish.

"I don't know if you can speak." She says. "But you must be clever, indeed, from what the mercenaries whispered to each other while I was in their care."

Hazel eyes, more green than brown, stare at her with an expression caught between sullen defiance and fear. It has a wide nose and full lips, a strong jaw that likely would have been seen as handsome without the scales. What an interesting contrast with the tail that scrapes the ground in slow, savage swipes.

"There is someone I would like you to find." Talia continues. "And I harbor no qualms about encouraging positive behavior with explosive incentive." She pulls out one of the detonators and holds it up to its face -- it's a marvel of technology, small enough to fit under the skin and plentiful enough she could put one or twenty on a single person and still confuse metal detectors. "If you try to flee or attack us, these will set you aflame from the inside out."

Its pupils dilate to a pinpoint. The chains rattle a little. She softens her voice.

"Does the name John Blake ring any bells?"

For a moment it just stares and shivers. Then a slow, dawning recognition spreads across its bestial face. Talia smiles.

"All you have to do is find him for me and I will set you free to roam Gotham as you please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's weird I totally neglected to name my chapters when uploading. I actually like naming them. _A lot._ May just go back and give them all titles in-between uploads.


	42. Peace-Of-Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for domestic violence mention.

Just when he thought he had the hang of things, reality sends him spinning to the floor with a mean left hook.

Hours after waking up in some East End back alley Blake had gone straight to the orphanage, Trevor in tow (though he hadn't been 100% positive she wasn't a complete figment of his imagination) and his head rattling like it was filled with bees. It was only when he walked through the front door did he realize he forgot to go to his stupid _apartment_ and bring a change of clothes and his laptop. Even though he had taken care to wipe off the worst of the blood and dirt the boys could tell something was off the moment they looked at him, though they crowed in delight at the sight of the dog and generally made a good-natured fuss. Reilly was sick again, somewhere upstairs. According to Finn, he wasn't doing so hot as of late.

On top of it all, he had no idea where Scarecrow _or_ Harleen had disappeared to. It took all his willpower not to have a breakdown in the hallway.

They were Swithin's boys, though, and didn't get to be such without being too clever for their own good. They sensed his poor mood and immediately went about trying to help any way they could. Tiya and Jay had both offered to walk Trevor, only to bicker over who got to hold the leash (which he nipped in the bud by making them flip a coin). Finn had offered to put on a movie to soothe his nerves (which he accepted as long as it wasn't Arkham Asylum: The Beginning) and Amir had even gone into the kitchen and made him his favorite drip (which he downed so fast he burned his throat).

"You know you can talk to us...right?" Finn had said as he helped himself to another cup. "'Cause you look like fresh hell every time you come by."

"I think I need a therapist, if we're being honest." Finn's face had dropped at that, but Blake gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "But you guys are the next best thing."

They stayed up late (too late for a school night, anyway, but hell, kids needed the rules broken once in a while to shake things up) watching new and old movies from the shelf. Joel had pitched a small yet dedicated fit when he was told he still had to commit to a curfew, being too young for long nights, and Blake missed him so much he couldn't help but give in. An hour later and he was out like a light, drooling on his chest as they watched the climax of The Prince's Journal. Usually too corny for his tastes, but it ended up being exactly what he needed to watch.

Both Jai and Emanuel had offered to make a quick dinner, laughing at his insistence they didn't have to and calling out his hypocrisy with the ferocity of older boys on the cusp of adulthood. It was a little heartbreaking seeing them all take care of him like this.

The last thing his boys should hear was that he probably needed them more than they needed him.

It had been a simple yet filling meal of re-heated pot roast and freshly mashed potatoes. He'd pointedly refused to even look at the rum Reilly kept tucked on the right-most bottom shelf, wanting yet not willing to drink himself completely stupid, not when the mere _thought_ of alcohol had him spinning back to that moment in The Narrows when him and Harleen were celebrating their capture of Scarecrow. Right before she turned around with her bat in the air and tried to kill him.

Despite caffeine from the coffee and the encroaching fear of his own dreams he'd fallen asleep at midnight on the couch, Amir curled up on the floor with Trevor and Finn snoozing in the recliner.

He'd woken up earlier than normal, his dreams all but a health hazard at this point, and it was early enough he could make the boys breakfast and indirectly apologize for his weird, needy behavior the previous night. It was easier to contend with everything that transpired over the past half-day once he had a (relatively) clear head. Joel had plainly criticized his pancakes at the table, insisting that it was his 'big frown' that kept them from being at their fluffiest. He let the kid show him personally with the leftover batter and was more than a little shocked at how easily he could flip the pancakes and make them rise without burning.

"Reilly says you gotta give plants love." Joel had said in a sing-song as he scooped up a pancake and handed it to him. "Flour and berries comes from plants, so you gotta give them love, too."

It was one of many bright spots on a morning he knew would get bad the moment the last boy left for school.

There were a series of explosions near Gotham's borders. Then there were some _more_. Right where Bane and his mercenaries were holed up in the storm drains. To say he nearly had a stroke when he saw the aerial photo, a giant smoking _crater_ that bled into nearby shops and forced them to close, would be putting it mildly.

He would proceed to nearly go crazy with worry over the following days, attempting to contact both Bane and Barsad and getting canned messages that their numbers were no longer in use. It was tempting to simply _go_ to what was left of the drains and seek them out, but he couldn't walk two feet without bumping into yellow tape, guards or both. Exhaustion and anger and whatever the hell got in his head back at East End got in the way of any hope he could feel. Another emotion, more bitter and somber, eventually took their place.

Things never exploded so much before.

It had been a weak moment. Once the typical numbness that came with bad news sank in and gave him time to think he admitted Gotham had always just found other methods of violence. It had never been _better_. Everyone just tried to keep things from...well. Going from bad to worse. Bane was here, had _been_ here, actively trying to make it something other than a lawless hellhole. An actual honest-to-God _improvement_. No wonder the city fought back.

Without concrete information to go off of he found his brain wandering down rabbit hole after rabbit hole in search of a conclusion on what happened while he was having a hallucinogenic episode in East End. Barbara had even given him a call to trade theories back and forth, an exercise he usually found invigorating a conversation he could barely finish. Maybe the Gotham police department found their hideout and got in over their head again. It wasn't the first time they tried to solve their problems with dynamite and showboating. It was pretty likely, even as PR report after PR report assured viewers they were doing their best to 'resolve the issue'.

Maybe it had been a simple accident. A mercenary had made a mistake and set off some of the dynamite he remembers seeing back when he had been kept in a cell. Pretty unlikely. Accidents usually didn't happen in Gotham. Accidents with explosions? Even less.

Maybe Talia had rubbed off on Bane after all and this was just a taste of what's to come. _That_ thought nearly struck him dumb.

It was a terrible thing to think and something that soured his mood for a good while. Bane was extreme, but he wouldn't cross _that_ line. The gentleness in which he treated his boys? The warmth in which he was beginning to treat him? Fuck, he saved his _life_. He didn't have to. Not with them just barely trusting each other all the way back then when he was still a lapdog for the police state. That just didn't translate to losing one's morals and pulling the trigger on a bunch of bombs. Maybe he _was_ a hothead. But he wasn't stupid.

' _Are you sure?_ ' His conscience had whispered one day while doing chores. ' _You haven't known him all that long._ '

His own thoughts startle him sometimes now, thanks in no small part to Scarecrow's toxin. Sometimes his inner voice sounds like him. Sometimes it...doesn't. He had grit his teeth while waiting for his laundry to finish and resisted as best he could the urge to reach into his pocket for a cigarette.

' _You thought Batman was a force for good. Then you found out he helped put the Dent Act in place. What else did he do without you even knowing? How many lives did he ruin to keep up someone's image? His image?_ '

He had scratched at his hair and belatedly noticed the thin scabs starting to form on his scalp. Maybe he should find a new tic.

' _Batman didn't kill Scarecrow. Bane didn't kill Scarecrow. You didn't kill Scarecrow._ '

He'd proceeded to huddle in the tiny laundry room and smoke four cigarettes too many.

It's a long walk to Toxic Acres. He has to buy another mask to stay safe, even though he lost his scarf back when Harleen ripped it off his face. He have to get another one next time he remembered, which wouldn't be soon. By the time he gets there it's mostly empty, people either busy in their makeshift housing or out running errands, no doubt. He's grateful to see Tatsu, in a weird sort of way.

"Is Harley...uh, Harleen here?" He asks when she opens the door to the colorful little meeting room he remembers from last time he visited.

"No. Hasn't been for a few days, actually." She bows her head. "I'm sorry."

It's not good news. In-between threatening to shoot him and trying to keep Harleen from going on a murderous rampage Crane had gotten back to his feet and fled. His spirits are lifted, just a touch, when she mentions she shot the man in a last-ditch attempt to apprehend him.

"You trust me to go talk to her?" Blake asks, trying to keep the bitterness in his voice to a minimum. Tatsu looks genuinely apologetic, a surprising change from her usual visual indifference.

"I know. I'm sorry. She told me you were not at fault." She says, writing something down on a scrap of paper. "Look, just go talk to her. She normally visits more often than this and I'm..." She hands it to him. "...I'm a little worried, to be honest."

She's looking at him like he's about to blow or something. He wonders if it has anything to do with his breakdown. A glance at the others in the room (also peering at him, also looking at him like he's about to blow-) and he mutters a parting word and leaves.

He's not sure how much patience he has for talking. At the very least he could give Harleen information on the clean slate. That was the deal, after all. Even if he was 99% sure their brief partnership was over, he wasn't someone who broke his promises without a damn good reason.

A man who worked at the Gotham Police Department well before he applied, a data miner by the name of Edward D., had once been sent to investigate the disappearance of a few people who had all, apparently, been involved in a secret program that involved a virus able to completely wipe out a person's identity. The assignment had hit an abrupt wall when Edward D. had gone missing, only for someone who looked _very_ much like him to show up in Metropolis years later. It didn't take a detective to figure out what happened there. _Why_ , though, was still a mystery. Even after he'd offered to Foley to close the case himself.

During his research for additional leads to give Harleen he'd also found himself glancing at missing persons reports, if only to attempt one or two to full memory. One, in particular, had rubbed him wrong. A deja vu he absolutely couldn't place, and thus, he knew better to ignore. So he had stared and stared and stared at the photo of a man named Waylon Jones, even though the report stressed he's been missing for the better part of two years and authorities were trying to find him more out of closure than a success story.

It wasn't the same as having the clean slate in his hand, but it was a lead.

Tatsu had given him directions to a small and old-fashioned apartment on the upper hills past downtown. He's been by the area a few times before on patrol. A rather pretty place with an unusually high amount of theft. Blake walks in, counts off the frame numbers and knocks on a door down the hall. A young woman with stringy blonde hair leans against the window not a few feet away, eying him up and down and earning a hard frown from him. He's never in the mood to be mugged, no, but today was a special day.

"Where you from?" She asks in some attempt at a casual air. Girl couldn't fool an elementary teacher.

"Don't-Try-It-Ville." Blake drawls. "Ever been?" She crinkles her nose, like she's just been insulted.

"I don't know _what_ you're talking about."

He knocks again, about to tell her _yes_ , she clearly does because he can spot a pickpocket about as easily as he can spot a turd in the grass...when he hears a familiar voice.

"Huh. Didn't think I'd see you again."

He turns and freezes. Selina Kyle is leaning in the doorway and watching him with an expression that can only read as supremely miffed. She's much more casual now, in a tight gray tank top and black leggings, and her hair hangs loose over her shoulders. The skinny blonde girl seems to know her, looking a little disappointed at this turn of events and picking at her nails sullenly.

"Don't tell me." He starts, only for a familiar bleached head to pop up over Selina's shoulder. "...Of _course._ "

"Mornin', Sherlock!" Harleen quips cheerfully. Selina raises one thin eyebrow, eyes flicking back and forth between all of them like she's trying to figure out who to slap first.

"Harleen." He wonders if his expression reads, ' _Hey, you forgot to tell me the infamous cat burglar was your roommate._ ' Knowing the constraints of the human face, probably not. "We gotta talk."

Selina Kyle stiffens, suddenly seeming three times as large as her thin frame. The not-mugger gives him a very nasty look and reaches into her pockets. Blake instinctively holds up his hands.

"I'm _not_ here to cause trouble." He stresses.

"Really." Selina says. "Your reputation would beg to differ."

"What, I'm supposed to believe _you're_ a saint?" Blake grits out. "Pretty high horse for a small-time burglar living on Pickpocket Lane." Harleen breaks the tension by patting them both on the shoulder, though her smile is anything but pleasant.

" _Don't_ make me play babysitter, you two."

There's a community porch overlooking the city just a stair up, currently unoccupied. Harleen makes herself comfortable by slumping back on one of the plastic pool chairs in front of the wooden railing. Her mussed pigtails and heart-print shorts make her look almost harmless. He wondered if that was the point or if she just happened to have the aesthetic taste of a fourteen year-old Girl Scout.

"So...what happened back there?" Blake asks as he sits on the pool chair opposite her. It creaks uncertainly. He eases his weight off it a little.

"You're pretty canny, Sherlock." She shrugs. "Don't think I gotta spell it out for ya."

"Maybe you do. I wouldn't mind some reassurance that it wouldn't happen again. The whole trying-to-bludgeon-me-to-death-with-a-bat-thing?" His voice grows hard. "That's the _fourth_ attempted murder on my head in the past three months alone. So either you explain what the fuck happened back there or you can find someone else to play hero with."

He waits for the dodge and excuses. Maybe even a snippy remark that he's full of crap and fishing for pity. What he doesn't expect is the plain sympathy in her eyes.

"Four, huh?" Harleen frowns. "That's rough, buddy."

"...Uh, yeah." Blake stammers, caught off-balance. "It...is." He's a little startled...and _that_ startles him. He hasn't really talked about what he's gone through outside of a mention to Gordon and that rant to Bane all the way back at the city hall. Just saying it out loud makes him realize just how messed up his life has become over the past few months. Harleen sits up a little, crossing her legs and pushing both hands on her ankles.

"Explains why you're so on-edge all the time. Gotta say, I feel pretty bad I had to be number four on the shit list." She bobs one leg idly. "Didn't think you'd waste time pullin' me outta there. What with Crane runnin' off like a chicken with its head cut off."

"The city hall wasn't a fluke." He sighs. "I think it's time for that character building session."

She looks ahead at the city with a frown tugging down her lips, one far less pouty than he was getting to know. The tickle of a sensitive topic rises to the surface and he decides to keep his mouth shut. While he had been less inclined to dig deeper on her psyche through his fight-or-flight reaction, reflection over the past few days suggested a bounty of little details betraying deeper story. When she attacked him she had been furious and a little off her rocker, sure...and terrified.

"So...you know we don't have Crane, right?" She starts. "Thought I should lay that out there."

"Yeah. Tatsu told me. At least she got a hit in." He responds. "Whatever he was doing is going to be put on hold for a bit, so...wasn't a total waste, I suppose."

"'Course not." At least she sounds confident. "So...you want the abridged version or the deluxe edition, doll?"

"Whatever you feel like telling me."

"All right. So, the Joker and I used to be an item."

Blake blinks. Then blinks again.

"Two peas in a pod. A Barbie and Ken set." She cocks an eyebrow. "C'mon, work with me here."

Jesus _Christ_. That was a surprising place to start. He leans forward as she continues, though he's definitely on-edge. He might've been _very_ wrong to put any trust in her.

"What you saw back there wasn't me tryin' to do you in. Just the panic attack to end all panic attacks." She smiles, but it's not a cheerful one -- she shows him her arm, where he remembers Crane's knife slicing her, and there's the faintest green tinge to her skin. "Turns out he had some of that toxin on his blade. Made me think that cheap suited clown came back from the dead to haunt me. Scarecrow came up with some pretty interesting stuff after he got busted out. I'm normally pretty good with the whole hallucinations-and-voices thing, but I won't lie. That was bad."

"So...he _is_ dead." Blake says, fingers steepled under his mouth as he soaks it all in. "Joker, that is."

" _Eh_." A cock of the head. "Hopefully."

"...Shit. Okay. Do you know who he used to be?" He asks, feeling his away around the topic. There are a million questions he wants to ask.

"Nobody did. Not even me." She looks at her bright red nails. "That was the appeal." She glances sideways at him, suddenly sly. "Guess that's Bane's appeal, too, huh?"

"I doubt Bane is like the Joker." What he doesn't say is, ' _Bane shared exactly who he used to be with me back near South Harbor months ago._ ' He really doesn't like the way she looks at him whenever his name comes up in casual conversation.

"What makes you so sure, huh?" She challenges. "Aside from the lack of green hair."

"Well, he's bald, for starters." He snorts. "Joker talked a big game, for one, but all I remember from the guy was the straight-up chaos he caused. He was pure anarchy, from start to finish." Blake continues. "Bane actually has a cause. More importantly, he follows up. He's a little extreme, but...Gotham's an extreme place." He shakes his head. "I mean, you were Joker's right-hand woman. Should I be so quick to start judging?"

"You bring that up one more time and this bat'll be straight up your _ass_."

Blake pauses, then glances around hurriedly. He didn't even know she had it with her.

"I could bring up your dilly-dallying with state-sanctioned murderers up, down, left and right." She says, suddenly nasty and looking at him with that murderous glint he'd gotten acquainted with back at The Narrows. "We're on the same page now, huh? Let's keep it that way."

Blake wasn't about to put it past her. He's wrestling between some sort of apology and his _own_ snippy remark about her borderline affair with that damn bat when she shrugs animatedly, curly pigtails bouncing off her shoulders. It was alarming how quickly she could switch moods at the drop of a hat.

"Guess I can't blame you _too_ much, though. I was another crayon in the box, swept up into his promises like all the rest." She pauses. "...Swept up? Drawn up? What's a good metaphor for crayons?" She sighs moodily when he doesn't offer anything. "Fine. Well, I wanted somethin' to believe in and he was loaded on promises."

"What did he promise you?"

"A better life. Like I said before, The Joker sang a _real_ pretty tune to a lotta people who wanted to be treated a little better. Working-class families, sex workers, veterans. You name it. I used to work at this little bar. Place shut down years ago, somethin' 'bout one too many debts causin' a shoot-out or something, but it was thrivin' back in the day. You know how it goes." She pauses. "You...okay?"

"No. I mean, yeah." He rubs his hair, pushing the ugly memories back. _His father's body twitches and wheezes on their porch, playing cards spilling out of gaping holes in his-_ "Go on."

"If you say so, doll. Well, the bar was in Amusement Mile. Put the 'shit' in 'shift', I'm tellin' ya. A place I couldn't quit because if I wasn't gettin' paid I wasn't gettin' out, but I wasn't gettin' out if I wasn't gettin' paid. Didn't mind the work, really, dancin' and drinkin' is fun enough, but the clients could've used a few boots up _their_ asses. If they weren't skimpin' on tips they were doublin' their charges and askin' for _way_ more than they paid for." Her voice grates. "'Look, don't touch'. Less is more, _jackasses_. Read the damn sign."

He doesn't like where the story is going. He leans forward and shows he's listening, anyway.

"One night some repeat customers got way too rowdy. One fella thought I owed him somethin' 'cause I treated him like all the other customers. I _smiled_ and _winked_ at him, aw! It was love at first _strip_ , I'm sure. Anyway, I was this close to stabbin' him in the face, but if I did that I'd probably be fired. Would've been the worst night of my life, considerin' he had all his flunkies with 'im...then the Joker came in."

Blake leans uncomfortably away when a dreamy expression spreads across her face.

"Came in lookin' like he just got off from doin' parlor tricks across the street, but he might as well have been an angel. He went up and asked 'em why they were makin' me cry, right in the middle of the show. Nearly ten guys, I remember, all puffin' up and swaggerin' like Bud and Lou when they got fresh food. Dunno _how_ he snuck a machine gun into the place, but I _do_ know I appreciated not havin' to entertain any more bad company that night."

"He killed them." His skin crawls, even though the victims were _far_ from sympathetic. "All of them."

"Sheesh, we ain't even drinkin' yet, Sherlock." She laughs. "Yeah, he snapped them off like bottles at a carnival booth. _Pop, pop, pop_. Then he helped me off the stage and asked if I wanted to turn Amusement Mile around. It wasn't a bad offer, all things told. A chance to quit my job and do some good? How could any girl turn that down?" Her demeanor slowly deflates. "...Shoulda read the fine print."

Blake is suddenly reminded of Joel's mother. They're as different as night and day, personality-wise, but the second-guessing and the old regrets...it's almost identical.

"...He hurt you." He says. It's not a question. Harleen looks at her nails. She doesn't talk for a few minutes. Blake leans back against the chair and waits, torn between impatience and the stationary calm that comes with helping shoulder someone's burden.

"Thought we had somethin' special. Thought he really was gonna turn Gotham around. It may be a shitty place, but it was _my_ shitty place, y'know?" She smiles a little when Blake nods. It was something all Gothamites felt, in one way or another. The smile fades, though, as she keeps speaking. "But he was as cheap as his knock-off shoes. Once he had my heart, he knew I'd do anything to keep it. Literally. ...He would've killed me if I tried to leave."

"You..." Blake starts, then pauses, not sure if it's all right to interject. Shit, he's not sure what to say. Does he ask who she helped kidnap? Hurt? _Kill?_ It's a reasonable question. That's what he's telling himself, but somehow, he feels like scum.

"Nah, I know what you wanna say, Sherlock." Harleen says. "I ain't a good person." She twists a finger in her curls. "Good person woulda taken the risk and skedaddled the moment he kidnapped an innocent doctor and used them for target practice. Instead I kept bidin' my time. Waitin' and waitin' for the right time to leave. Droppin' innocent women off of buildings. Shootin' tellers in the head. Blowin' up hospitals. I waited through all of it." A soft sigh. "...when I finally worked up the courage to put a bullet in his head Batman got to 'im. Then he got to me."

Batman. The common thread linking between all of them. He tries to remember where he was when the news was covering a hoard of men in clown masks disrupting a rich party all those years back. The shadowy glimpses of the caped crusader in-between the shattering windows and gunfire.

"...Yeah, well." Blake mutters. He's not sure if he wants to believe her. It could be a spectacular lie. But his gut, as is becoming more usual, is tugging him in a direction he didn't expect. "You're not the only one who had a dream for better and got a nasty wake-up call."

"Speakin' of which. What'd you see in your dream?" She asks, dabbing at her eyes quickly. "Or whatever Scarecrow likes to call that stuff, 'cause I ain't entirely convinced he's not openin' up our brainwaves to receive cable from Mars." Blake winces visibly. He doesn't want to remember it. Not because it was painful, but because it was...good. While he doesn't tell her every single detail, it's not because he has no sense of honor after she all but bared her soul to him. Some strange, superstitious little part of him worries if he gives voice to what he went through it'd happen again. An even smaller part, one he doesn't want to acknowledge, hopes it does.

"...It felt like some weird spin on my life." He finishes after a basic summary. "People I knew...and people who've died...all jumbled up like some episode of Gotham Nights."

"You watched that show, too?" She gasps in delight, clapping her hands together. Blake lets slip a grin.

"I mean, it was the only decent thing on after eleven. What'd you see in your dream, Harleen?" He asks, eager to change the subject. The former harlequin looks down.

"...We had a baby." She fiddles with her hair. "Always wanted one."

They sit in silence for a bit. When the conversation picks up again it's decidedly _not_ on the topic of Scarecrow's bizarre toxin and its hallucinations. It's a relief, all things considered, even if they do touch on the nearly-as-uncomfortable topic of where they're going to go from here. The apartment at The Narrows has since been closed for repairs. Many of the residents have been admitted to local psychiatric hospitals. In typical media fashion, the place wasn't ritzy enough _or_ popular enough to earn anything more than a few runs on the mainstream news station before being swapped out for the next big thing. As a result, the Toxic Acres crew was going to take things into their own hands.

"I got a friend who might be able to help out with the toxin's side-effects. Thing is, she's not _really_ a people person." She hops to her feet and starts to stretch -- now that he glances at the changing skyline, they've been at it for a few. "You gonna be at The Reckoning? Might bring Bud and Lou to get some fresh air." She snickers churlishly and he gets the feeling it's not because she's tickled about her pets' health.

"Yeah. It's probably going to be the biggest protest in Gotham's history. Couldn't call myself a Gothamite and miss it. Even though all I want to do is nap for six months." He leans down and rubs his face in his hands. "...Feel like I'm gonna go fucking crazy."

"It ain't so bad." Harleen says upside-down -- she's bent all the way backwards, leaning her hands on the ground like a trained gymnast. "The thing about sanity? You can always pick up where you left off."

Selina takes that moment to lean out of the window below and yell up at them. "Hey! You want whisky, scotch or tea?"

Harleen hops over to the edge of the porch and reaches down. After a few exchanged yells she stands up fully and turns around, a bottle, a bag of ice and two cups in her hands. "Drink with me, Sherlock. I still owe you one." She hands him a glass. "Consider this an official apology."

He was overdue for some alcohol. A headache is starting to throb behind his eyes, so he holds the glass of ice and scotch to his temple in-between drinks. Harleen puckers her lips sympathetically and tosses him the ice bag. He swaps it.

"So...where'd you get the hyenas?" He asks as he takes another swig. "I mean, I've heard of exotic pets, but..."

"When I got busted outta the joint there was this riot at the zoo I was stayin' at..."

Hours go by. They talk about hyena hygiene ("That'd make a great death metal band name!" she'd exclaimed) and the last season of Gotham Nights, funnier topics than the emotional outpour they just got through with. The sun is sinking past the buildings when he cares to check the time again, swathing Harleen's brown skin into a curvy and expressive silhouette against the railing, and he's swaying a little sitting down and feeling like he doesn't have a care in the world. Except...he _does_ , so he considers it's high time to stop drinking and get his ass back home. Selina Kyle is in the kitchen reading a book when he walks back down, though she sets it down the moment he steps inside. Her hair is now twisted up in a bun and she has a pair of reading glasses on.

"Harleen didn't drink _too_ much, did she?" She asks with the tone of someone who's definitely seen too much. "She swears she has hollow legs, but I've seen squirrels who could hold their liquor better."

"She's fine." Blake says, glad the alcohol hasn't slurred _his_ speech too much. "Keeps yelling song lyrics at people from the porch, but it's nothing too obscene." He chuckles. "But still pretty bad."

He looks around. It's a rather pretty place, like something he'd see out of one of the old-fashioned 80's interior design magazines that always stocked up the side-tables of waiting rooms. There are a wealth of decorations lining the kitchen counters and covering the table and dangling from the ceiling, homely throws draped over the backs of chairs and colorful plants that make his eyes roam comfortably. Everything smells of potpourri and tea. He does wonder, though, where she got such expensive looking silverware.

"...So I heard you got snatched up by Bane's men." Selina says into the silence, smirking at him over the rim of her cup. "Life comes at you fast, doesn't it?"

His brain tells him the irritation boiling his stomach is an impulsive reaction. His gut tells him she's being a shit. After all, Bane kidnapping him had worked out far better than either of them could have hoped. It doesn't make him like her smug tone any less. She'd been terrified of the man herself. Even before she admitted it to his face all the way back at that airport he could see it in her eyes. He downs what's left in his cup and looks for a place to set it down. It was partially his fault she ended up in Blackgate, after all. She had a right to not like him very much. No...no, it _was_ his fault. He could've let her go. There was no reason for him to be touchy.

"Look, I was-" He starts, his buzz making the words organize themselves slower than normal. She interrupts him with a light scoff and gets up to walk over to the stove, tucking a few strands behind her ear.

"Relax. I'm not interested in an apology." She pops open the cabinet, takes out a box and dunks another teabag into her cup. "It'd be a little late, anyways."

"...You told me you were afraid of Bane." He says to her indifferent back. She crumples up the wrapper and tosses it into the trash.

"I figure anyone with half a brain would be." She says, coolly. "He's one of Gotham's most successful hitmen and we're not exactly _wanting_ for competition." He's not fooled.

"It _sounded_ personal, Selina." Blake presses.

"Get to the point, detective."

"Okay. What's your connection with Batman?"

She turns around with a rather large quirk to her mouth. It'd almost look natural if it weren't so sardonic. "That's a pretty big leap."

"Please." Blake sighs. At least his headache was gone, but she seemed determined to replace it. "You know what they did to him. You didn't forget our talk already?"

"That doesn't mean I _know_ him personally."

"But you do." It's his turn to smile, now, though he holds at least 90% of it back. He's not trying to browbeat her. "It's written all over you."

She watches him flatly for a moment. Then she lifts a hand to her mouth and calls to the ceiling, "Hey, Harleen! I think you have competition for Gotham's most annoying psychoanalyst."

"Who's threatenin' my title?" She cries back in mock outrage. Blake pinches the bridge of his nose.

"You don't have to share with me your entire-" He starts, again, only for her to interject much less kindly this time.

"You're right. I don't. I really don't have to do anything you say, now that I think about it." She pours a rather generous amount of whisky into her teacup and stirs it. "Are we done here?" It was like a curse, his time in law enforcement. But what could he do? He left for a reason. That meant the bullshit rules _and_ the bullshit mentalities. Trust was earned and he was finding out, again and again, that it came in very strange packages.

"...Yeah. We're done." He pulls out his wallet to check for bus change. "Thanks for the whiskey. Er, scotch." He pauses. "By the way...I came across some information on the clean slate."

"Why would I be interested in that?" Selina asks, eyes narrowed over the rim of her cup. Maybe he wasn't even close to being Gotham's savior in its time of need. But he was a detective. A friend of Harleen's trying to wipe her identity and start over new? There was nobody who fit the bill better than the slippery cat burglar herself.

"You want it or not?" Blake asks, placing a threatening hand on the doorknob for good measure. "I mean, I'm sure there are _plenty_ of others who'd like to know..." Selina puts a hand on her hip and scowls. She ends up accepting the information, quite grudgingly, acting as if it's some piddling knowledge beneath her as he jots down some names and dates to get her started. The intrigue that lights up her eyes when she shoves the slip in her pocket, however, doesn't go away.

"...Hey."

Blake looks over his shoulder in the open doorway. Selina taps a finger on her arm in thought. Then...

"Thanks for looking out for Harl." She says. "She told me how she would've been in a bad spot if you hadn't helped."

"...Yeah." Blake says, already thinking of soft pillows and closed blinds back at his apartment. "'Course."

\-- 

Nearly three weeks go by and he's convinced Bane is dead.

He actually finds himself tearing up while in the bathroom shaving. He tries to blame it on the razor cutting into his cheek and the subsequent stinging of antiseptic, but it's a pathetic excuse that doesn't take. Intrusive thoughts of the masked man's mangled body being transported somewhere for study or preservation under the watchful eye of the government, after an assassination or a heart attack or _something_ , is terrible enough to make him drop his shaving cream onto the ground and grimace into his hands for fifteen straight minutes.

There's no recent footage to be found of him. No protests. No clips. Earlier in the week he even got halfway through packing up enough clothes and supplies to cross the South Gate and head out into the mountains where his second hideout was. He'd waffled back and forth on the decision, torn between finding out proper and not leaving all his obligations to collect dust.

He holds back. He instead meets with the Acres crew and, alongside Harleen, discusses plans to find where Scarecrow fled to. Harleen's friend, someone by the name of Pamela, is incredibly secretive yet apparently has enough scientific knowledge to put a dent in his experiments while they do some digging. Tatsu has shown more inclination toward trusting him, a nice enough change, and it's spread to the others -- he's visited only thrice and already he's treated like one of their own. They treat him a touch delicately, wary but not mean-spirited, and it's hard not to feel a little self-conscious about what the woman could've told them. 

He takes care of the boys. He takes care of Reilly, more often now due to his poor health. He tries, and fails, to take better care of himself. Blake didn't always move on. If he was being entirely honest, he was shit at it. But he could fake it 'til it eventually stuck.

Then Barsad calls him. He's driving Reilly back from the dentist after a surgery, fresh off of a full days' work talking with clients over the phone. He had turned down the radio and put his phone on speaker as he looked for a place to park, only for the mercenary's voice to make his body go as rigid as a diving board.

"Who's that?" Reilly had mumbled. He was still a little out of it from the anesthesia, but at the very least neither of them would have to worry about him getting sick from teeth that should've been pulled out _years_ ago. The man's busy schedule had really been starting to show -- stress was a silent killer and his already finicky health was taking the brunt of it. Even with Sasha occasionally dropping by to babysit the younger kids, it wasn't enough help for an underfunded boy's home of twenty-seven...and a dog.

"Work contact." He'd replied. It was the whitest of lies, but it was better than saying how he really felt and making the good Father want to dive headfirst out the window to avoid his wrath.

' _We need to meet face-to-face._ ' Barsad said. ' _At your nearest convenience._ '

"Who's we, Barsad?" He hadn't even cared to refrain from using his name. "Because I don't find you coming out of the blue very convenient at all."

' _Just you and I._ '

The mercenary had sounded rather sour at that, but he didn't care. Blake was _going_ to hiss that they were missing a very specific someone, someone that should've checked in with him like thoughtful people do, but it didn't gel very well with the realization that had turned his entire body ice cold.

"Is he...dead?"

' _No. This is one of the things I want to talk to you about._ '

He'd been so relieved he nearly dropped the phone. Then he'd gotten angry _all_ over again. Barsad proceeded to give him a time and place. A small shop over near The Narrows. It had taken him nearly a full minute to realize Reilly was staring at him with his mouth agape after he'd nearly slammed into another car attempting to parallel park. The poor mood would lick and nip at his heels all the way from the orphanage to his apartment to his destination.

Blake glances at his watch, then looks up at the corner shop sign. Trevor pants happily by his side, ears cocking to and fro at every little sound. She was a healthy weight, maybe a touch thinner than what he remembers for the shelter, suggesting she was either very good at digging in the garbage or she had been fed by some nice patrons during her tour of East End and Old Gotham. At first he was amazed she had come out of it all with barely a scratch, then he remembered she was much more wild than she was tame. Barsad is dressed in a casual flight jacket and jeans when he arrives, none of the heavy coats or red scarves he'd come to associate him with. Coupled with a pair of shades and a baseball cap, he flat-out doesn't recognize him at first.

"Cute dog." He says, even though he eyes her with a look that says he's _not_ an animal person. Trevor, as was her wont, takes his hesitance as a cue to immediately jump up onto his chest for licks and it takes a good amount of Blake's strength to wrangle her back down as they find an isolated place to sit.

"The reactor is in our hands once more." Barsad says as he brushes white fur off his coat, getting comfortable at a small table outside the shop with a few empty chairs. It's surprisingly good news. At least, as much as a bomb could _be_ good news. Blake doesn't speak. He can see the mercenary still has much more to say.

Like he's reading the headline of a (much more honest) newspaper Barsad litters off events and details one-by-one, though his mechanical calm doesn't carry over. Blake feels his entire body slowly seizing with shock as he learns the truth behind what he saw on the news. Through a tracking device they had found the members that defected from the League, though it was considered a huge gamble in Barsad's eyes. It ended up paying off, exposing their hideout near the coast (so _that's_ what happened over there) and revealing where they kept the reactor all this time.

A few members were lost in action, however, and the storm drains were exposed when the defectors' leader slipped away and blew it up. Talia went 'missing'. So did the crocodile man. They've been trying to find both, but not with much luck. Salim had apparently told Barsad the 'Crocodile Hunter' would be fit for the job, which he relays with about as much dry humor as Blake's come to expect. At least Salim was managing to find some humor in the situation. It _had_ tried to drown him once, after all. Blake swallows back the dread that it had tried and failed to kill _him_ twice. Hopefully it wasn't a huge fan of grudges.

Deja vu tickles the back of his mind, insistent as a scratch, but he pushes it aside. Barsad is still speaking.

"I would recommend you steer clear of any and all sewers, storm drains or even rivers." He continues. "Though I don't imagine you go wandering around in them without good cause."

"Wait...they weren't kept at the second hideout?" He clarifies. "Talia, the crocodile man...?" Barsad gives him a funny look, as if wondering where he could've gotten such a conclusion.

"No. It's a back-up for a reason. When we bring outside parties inside, they're brief interrogations." He sighs lightly through his nose. "In retrospect, however...it would have been a good idea. We will have to stay there now while Gotham sniffs through our ruins."

Blake's eagerness turns to dread when he finds out Bane had gotten seriously hurt. Not a gun shot or a few cuts, no. He got burned. Bruised. Had surgery on his _stomach_. That was on top of his back pain, his mask, whatever else he had he didn't want to share. He'd said that he used the mask for pain _and_ for image. How did it work? Was it a breathing apparatus? Did it hold his _jaw_ together? His thoughts start to flurry together. Maybe he should ask.

"...I stayed with him until we could receive the help we needed." Barsad leans his cheek into a fisted hand as he finishes. "The weather was terrible enough to hide us. Gotham patrol is, much like your city, virulent...and quite sloppy."

Blake feels his hands instinctively sliding through his hair in horror, then gripping the back of his head tighter and tighter as he tries to process it all. Trevor has her head on her paws from where she lays under the table, but she looks up at him with worried brown and blue eyes.

"...Shit." He whispers. " _Shit_. He's going to be okay, right?"

"Of course." The relief at those two simple words is enough to make him feel light-headed. "Bane has risen from far worse. Irregardless, he still needs time to make a full recovery. He wouldn't miss the protest."

"Thank you."

"Thank you?" Barsad repeats.

"For helping him out of there." He feels emotion welling up like a cup threatening to overflow. "For keeping him safe." The past few weeks has given his mental health a real beating. Blake feels like wet paper, threatening to pull apart with the slightest pressure. He's been a complete and utter asshole, convinced Bane didn't give a shit about him when he knew, he _knew_ the man had a lot on his plate.

"Well, he damned me every second." Barsad says, a rare glimpse of humor. "But it's good to know it wasn't entirely in vain."

"Is he in a lot of pain?" Blake presses, hungry for details, anything to wash out and replace the ugly thoughts he had to slog through for weeks on end. Barsad almost looks amused at his eagerness, but he doesn't smile.

"He often is. Don't worry. The League Of Shadows is well-equipped to handle any injury or illness brought our way. He will shake this off and rise again, as he always has." Blake chews on his lip so hard he's sure he'll cut himself. Barsad moves his head to the side, studying him. "...He is quite skilled at seeming invincible. I know-" The mercenary stiffens when Blake reaches over the table and suddenly gives him a tight hug.

" _Thank you._ "

At first the mercenary just sits there, as if not knowing what to do. Then he slowly reaches up and pats his shoulder. Trevor's tail thumps happily from below the table.

"...You're welcome."

Blake pulls back and sits down, embarrassed, and runs a hand through his hair. "Sorry. It's been one of those weeks."

"Yes. It has." He agrees. "Or one of those months, if we're getting technical."

"Yeah. We could be here all day on that. Could I..." He pauses, already knowing the answer and dreading it. "...see him?"

"I would not recommend it." Barsad's voice is gentler now, a stark contrast to his stiff delivery before. "Talia's disappearance has...shaken him. He will not admit to this, not fully, but you're likely used to his secrecy by now."

Blake is too distracted to properly make note of the bitter tone on those last words, worry and hurt starting to burn down his chest. He didn't get through to the guy at all, did he? So damn stubborn. Still trying to shoulder everything on his own. He wants to be understanding. The loss of his daughter _and_ the danger she posed to the city? Hell, on top of the crocodile man disappearing and having his hideout blown up and losing some of his men...he wouldn't exactly be in a good mood, himself. But the thought he could've been blown up without so much as a _goodbye_...

It's hard not to think back to that dream. Hallucination. Whatever it was. Where everything was so much easier.

Barsad's pale eyes are shrewd. "Who is he to you, Blake...?"

The detective stiffens. Even if Barsad hadn't been clued into the details between them it's likely he had a few suspicions of his own. Bane hadn't wanted him to share their private life among his men. Blake kept to that. Barsad was his second-in-command, though. His confidant, if he was going out on a limb. It wouldn't be too far-fetched to just tell him what's going on.

"I don't plan on sharing this with anyone." He says through Blake's troubled silence. "I just wish to know."

"We are..." He starts. "We're..." He sighs and fidgets with his last cigarette in his coat pocket. Trevor's long snout sneaks between his legs to nuzzle his hand for pets and he gratefully scratches her head. "...He means a lot...to me."

"...I see." He can see Barsad filling in the blanks himself. Considering Bane's past history (or, rather, lack of a past history), it probably feels nearly as strange to him as it _still_ is to Blake. He glances up at his face and confirms, yes, he does.

"Sorry." Blake shrugs and fiddles with Trevor's long ears. "It's not a thing I can pin down yet."

"There is nothing to apologize for." He looks more relaxed than before. It's amazing how easily the man can seem ordinary at the drop of a hat. "You are a welcome element. Even if I can't pin it down, either." He's smiling now, the faintest quirk to his mouth. The pain on Blake's face doesn't leave, it seems, because he adds, "He is an extraordinary man, for better and for worse. When he distances himself, it's for the benefit of others."

"That's not how family works." Blake says. Barsad nods smoothly.

"No, it's not." He agrees. "But his family, too, has been extraordinary."

"I guess. Explains why he gave Joel a knife. One of the boys at my orphanage." Blake clarifies. Barsad's eyebrows hitch straight up to his hairline at that. "Yeah. For his birthday. Four-inch military-grade pocket knife. Maybe the kid can use it when it's not half as tall as he is." They share a chuckle together and his heart, for just a second, feels a little lighter.

"Could you let me know how he's doing?" He asks once the laughter's subsided. "Just...for peace-of-mind?"

"I will see what I can do. Contact will be sporadic." It doesn't feel like a dishonest sentiment. Guess that's what made him dependable. "In the meantime, take care of yourself."

"Could you also, uh..." Blake pauses mid-sentence. He wants to give the gift himself. But he can only imagine the pain he's in. He could use something to help him relax...maybe. "Could you give this to him?"

Barsad reaches out for the book only for Blake to snatch it back. He crosses his arms and waits as Blake digs around in his pocket for something to write on. He pulls out an old receipt and smooths it down over his leg, nudging Trevor's snout with his elbow when she tries to chew on it.

"Got a pen?"

He tries not to take too long. Barsad is about as good at emoting as a store mannequin, but he knows he has a lot to do and is itching to get back to it. He crams the last few words as best he can when he runs out of space, waves it in the air to dry then folds it carefully in-between the first few pages like a bookmark. Barsad takes it and gives him a respectful nod as he gets up to leave.

"See you downtown, brother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a rough week and a half, so here's an extra chapter in case yours is, too.
> 
> Anyone else think about their writing notes and how they'll be perceived by updated readers and readers who come onto the story years after the fact?
> 
>  
> 
> July 2, 2017: did a little re-reading and **wow** this chapter was super sloppy, so I did some edits


	43. Gentle Days

He was at the mercy of gentle days.

It actually startled him this morning, in a lucid moment between waiting for his anesthesia to kick in and the agonizing pain hazing his vision, that he was getting old. Ignorance wasn't his excuse. Mainstream media's obsession with eternal youth even less so. No, Bane just didn't expect he would ever reach such an age. How old he was, specifically, had always been a mystery -- he never recorded days in the pit, nor did he remember his birthday -- and, as a result, he had to base his knowledge off of more tedious details.

What he had shrugged off reasonably well years ago took more of his strength now. While the burns he sustained from the bomb-rigged bodies of the defectors had only just been staved off by his coat and armor, the ceiling caving in on him had different results entirely. Alongside a scattering of second-degree burns and foot-long bruises along his arms and sides he'd also broken a rib and cracked another two. A beam had punctured through his jacket, enough to pierce his side, and it was only luck that kept it from going straight through his liver.

Bane has broken bones. Clawed his way through disease that killed hundreds of others. Lost his sanity beneath the callous hands of prisoners when they tortured him far beyond where sympathetic eyes could see. Even when he was a wild and broken man spat out fresh from the pit he had been a force of nature, so much so he had shamed the legendary Ra's al Ghul and become the terror of Gotham's worst nightmare. He had always been all-encompassing, vengeance and instinct incarnate. A shadow made man.

Now everything creaked and ached. From mind to body to soul.

_He'd insisted on seeing the destruction with his own eyes._

_Bane had known many homes. Because of this he had never grown overly attached to any one location, wanderlust stamped into his very bones out of necessity. Yet the smoldering wreck that yawns before him leaves one similar in his mind._

_Over the next few days his men do their part to seek out the wounded nearby and within. A few had fallen inside when the ground caved, some to their death and others to severe injury. The civilians would be tended to by his medics, enough to stabilize their condition, then transported to nearby hospitals. It was the very least they could do. Even though it was not enough._

Gentle days were despairing days. Without his steady stream of work to distract him he was held in the thrall of thoughts that would see him finished off with more finesse than Bruce Wayne or Ra's or Rubio or his hundreds of other enemies could have ever dreamt of. Bane didn't cry, but he could feel the burn crawling up his chest every time he thought of Talia's disappearance amid the storm drains' wreckage. The howl of rage that threatened to tear his throat during every cursed moment on his bed, by the table, on his bed, by the table, on the floor, on the bed. An animal's monotony that would have him go mad.

His daughter is gone. His daughter is deadly. His daughter will show her victims no mercy. Her victims? Innocent and guilty alike. He is one of the few capable of tracking her down and stopping her rampage, but he is beholden to Gotham's residents and his injuries and the tender moments he has greedily cobbled together with a local detective he finds himself wanting more and more by the day. These are facts, and Bane is a man of logic, but there is none of the usual comfort to be found there.

He would find her. She was a threat to _everything_ they stood for. Because of this he could expend the League's time and energy into accompanying him...but not if they remained ignorant to the truth. His men had already expressed concerns about her extended holding. Barsad had made sure he knew this. He may just have to ask John for the recording that has haunted his subconscious ever since he first heard it in St. Swithin's, to stamp out any doubts and inspire complete trust in his judgement.

Were they to hear it, however...they would no doubt view her as another obstacle to be crushed. Bane couldn't let that happen. He would _kill_ to protect her, even now, and he knows, deep down, that oblivion lays in that simple truth. Does he sacrifice his own ideals and, in turn, sacrifice the respect and trust of his men? Can he still, _somehow_ , sway her away from that fanatic light? These thoughts flay him from the inside out day in and day out as he recovers. As merciless as he has been for however many years he's roamed the earth.

Despair...despair could turn Bane into a legend sooner than he wished.

Anesthesia has to be tempered through alternating doses to remain effective. Supplemental drugs, weaker drugs, are filtered in-between the gaps to shave the edge off the pain. Some days he's had to go without either. The combination of his damaged spine and damaged mouth, burns and cracked bones and bruises has overwhelmed even his high tolerance. Food is difficult to keep down. He's blacked out twice. Even then, he finds a shred of pride in his ability to come to before Barsad checks in on him.

He still curls protectively around any weakness shown. Little bared to his men. Even to John. Even though a hound could've deduced the reasons behind his extended absences and very brief visits.

Delusion had set in, a few times. Some people were startled by visions brought on by pain or drugs. Interpreting them as messages from above or the inevitable loss of their sanity, whichever was preferable. Instead Bane listens and observes and tries to learn from their unique wisdom.

One slip in reality had him seeing the blasted remains of his once-promising members of the League scattered around the room. He named them all, one by one, only to curse their foolishness. Bane had never committed to a single religion, but spirituality had become an omnipresent force in his life mere months after he left the pit. Their eternal rest would still see no mercy from him.

The second had Lael standing in the doorway to his room, holding the stone knife he crafted for Talia all those years back in one hand. Demanding he pull of his mask in that imperious, smooth way she always did. He had already failed. He had failed her, _endlessly_. He couldn't protect her from the prisoners' spite. He had freed her daughter and tried to create a better world, only to find out she didn't even _want_ it. It was the most agonizing one by far, reducing him to little more than pleading for her forgiveness for seeming hours.

Her hair had been plaited over one shoulder, an inky black work of art crossing over the front of her dusty brown dress, just like he remembered when Talia had been a baby still attached to her breast. He had no photos of Lael. Nothing he could hold and reflect upon with ideal clarity. Her death had left him only with memories sometimes-perfect, sometimes-worn by time and sickness. Bane later shattered this delusion by flinging a wooden crate at where she stood.

The third one, three and a half days ago, saw a vision of John sitting on his bed. His hair had been trimmed, brushed back neatly over his ears, and he'd wore that deep blue vest he remembers from their time on the rooftop of the orphanage. Form-fitting brown slacks. Shiny shoes. A clean, handsome look. Dimpling a smile and framed by the faint lantern light on his bedside, the most vivid clue as to his unreality was his uncharacteristic silence. No questions, no concerns. It didn't stop Bane from speaking to him.

Perhaps even a trick of the mind could help him better understand the hypnotic ache that twisted his chest every time he thought of the man.

Sometimes Bane would go on mental journeys of St. Swithin's, with its peeling white walls and aging wooden floors. He would muse over how he could spend longer spans of time with the boys when he wasn't moving back and forth through his obligations. Would they eventually view him as an uncle? A sort of father figure? Family dynamics were known to him, but known as one would know the answer to an equation. A cold calculation. Too cold for reality's unpredictable ebb. Perhaps he would never know the answer, with his mask.

These aimless wanderings in-between agony and yearning would always, eventually, lead him to dark eyes and wry smiles. He wanted to play another round of chess and see what new strategies John had conjured up in the meantime. He wanted to spar, when his body didn't choke with so much pain, and watch the man's combat prowess improve in real time. He wanted to become acquainted with the mundane hobbies John used to pass the time between work and sleep. These better thoughts could sometimes hush the blare of a sick brain. So he shared all these things with him.

John hadn't said a word all the while, but he'd reached down and stroked his cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"I could teach Joel recipes from all over the world." Bane had wheezed when he could find the breath. "I could bring him ingredients to play with. His tendency to panic would abate with confidence. It would be something he could focus on."

At that the detective had grinned and placed a kiss on the front of his mask.

Yearning, as raw as any wound, had him reaching up and around and twisting his hand in the back of John's vest to keep him there. He knew his mind had truly run off with him if he could feel the taut thread count running beneath his fingers, but he hadn't cared. Not when John's breath had then dusted his neck and his heartbeat thrummed in time with his own.

It had been a brief moment of bliss. He'd savored the tickle of his stubble where the mask didn't cover. Had lasciviously ran his hands up the detective's firm thighs and let his fingers rise and dip over the curve of his ass, lustful memories filtering through the corners of his mind like smoke.

John had turned at a sound right after, the happy squall of one of the St. Swithin's boys (it must've been Tiya, that boisterous, cheeky child-), and rose to his feet. He was ever attentive to them and it was a detail that warmed itself, even through the pain of his departure. Jogging to the door he'd spared him a worried glance over his shoulder. Gestured to him. Bane called out the detective's name, he remembers now, in some bid to bring him back. Again and again. He hadn't begged, no, had never been the piteous type to make a habit out of _begging_.

He had, however, come dangerously close.

Instead the detective had slipped out the open door and vanished, replaced by Barsad frowning in silent concern and glancing about the room with a bowl of food in his hand.

Talia...she had never showed. Even in his own mind she eluded him.

The reckoning was near. Even if he couldn't fight to the fullest of his ability, his image would be enough. Gotham had to be responsible not just for its life, but its death. It would _have_ to be enough.

The protest would be the largest seen in Gotham's history. Tens of thousands spilling wrath onto the streets after generations of abuse. Some of the rich and the powerful, swollen on endless comfortable years, had died at his own hands over the months. A few more yet would be paraded for all to see, beholden to the justice they thought themselves above, and left to the mercy of the ill without care, the homeless without warmth and the mothers without food for their children.  


The ember of vengeance, of justice, pulses within him. It would be a sight to behold. A sight to die to, if need be.

There are no delusions to accompany him today. He has managed to eat a little food and sitting up doesn't seize him with quite as much pain as a week prior. He's watching the news and twisting thread in his hands. The reporter is discussing reports of a masked vigilante dressed similarly to Batman and giving local law enforcement trouble in certain parts of town. They appear to be young and female, judging by their slight size, but there has been no other definitive information provided. Other than the fact they were yet another growing thorn in the side of injustice.

Many splinter groups have risen since his arrival in Gotham. Reports of rebellious activity in environmentally unstable areas such as Toxic Acres and The Narrows have reached his ears, for one. Online movements such as 'The Gotham Guard' and 'We, The Masked', for another. What made this little vigilante interesting was that the presumed 'she' had yet to be caught. Indeed, he had seen this caped character show up three times in the news, but ever-elusive she slipped through the fingers of local officers.

Even clad in garb hearkening to Bruce Wayne's childish fantasy, Bane had been rather pleased at the disruption they continued to cause. The most notable appearance had involved them stepping in the middle of an unlawful arrest of a youth -- the officer harassing the child had dismissed them, scoffing audibly at their costume, only to receive an impressive roundhouse kick to the throat. The video capture was brief and shaky, filtered poorly through a bystander's cellphone, but it proceeded to take the internet by storm.

They had vanished, child in tow, and the video cut off just after the emboldened crowd began to throw anything at hand at the offending party. Gotham continued to show its potential in surprising ways.

" _If you see anyone who resembles this photo..._ " The reporter gestures to a photo of a thin figure in shadow, leaping over a car with a short yellow cape glinting brightly around their shoulders. " _...please contact the Gotham police department at your nearest convenience._ "

Three quick knocks rap on his door. He calls out his approval, then lowers the volume as Barsad steps in.

"I have four prospective members who are interested in joining our militia." He reports smoothly. "I have conducted extensive background checks to ensure they are not native to Gotham. This, at least, lowers the possibility of infiltration."

Weeks later and the man was still licking his wounds from Rubio's betrayal and the loss of his men. Not only was he still going through the tedious process of assessing every single League member's outside actions for suspicious activity, Barsad had been knee-deep in the storm drains helping salvage leftover supplies and bodies. He was a steady person and would sooner see his pain applied practically than mutated into a self-hating strain that impacted his performance. Still. He could, at the least, verbalize his support.

"Good." He grunts when he sets aside the string and leans up onto his elbows, testing his body's strength. "There is no foolproof plan other than death to prevent betrayal, but I trust you to mitigate the risk."

"The risk grows bigger every day." The resentment in his voice is tempered, just barely. "With every person lost...ours or otherwise."

"This risk has always been known. I did not revitalize the League Of Shadows to peddle dreams." Bane takes steady breaths as he sits up fully. "I look forward to seeing you rise to the challenge."

Barsad studies his face carefully, then relaxes a little. It's nearly imperceptible, but to Bane's sensitive eye it's as loud as a thunderclap.

"At the least, we have one constant. Dr. Pavel has made further progress on the reactor. He says it will be finished in a matter of days. The total blast radius will reach six miles, enough to rival the nuclear power of entire countries." He continues. It's good news, yes, but neither of them react to it with anything more than base acknowledgement. Not with so much still at stake. "After his attempt to stall, will he still be returned to his family afterwards?"

"I will admit, I wasn't pleased by his deception. But his experiences here could net a wider, more positive influence upon release." Bane responds, rolling his neck and wincing. "I will decide once the reactor is complete. What else?"

"He should be returned to his family." Barsad adds, softly. Bane glances at him. An acknowledgement, yes...and a warning.

"Noted."

"...I have checked in with our underground patrols. There has been no sign of the crocodile man, from where we have been able to search." Barsad's mouth thins. "A...hopeful yet worrisome sign."

Bane waves an impatient hand. With the returned superweapon and Talia's disappearance it was a minor detail to him, at best. His men have had their brush with the strange creature already. They know how to handle it by now. If it had any form of wisdom (and he knew it was sly, at least), it would stay far, _far_ away.

"I met with Blake." Barsad finishes. "Just yesterday."

A spike of want cuts through him at the man's name. It's so dissimilar to the endless glare of despondency bleaching his days that it takes him a moment to recognize the emotion for what it is.

"How is he?" Bane rasps as he starts to stand up, a little hurriedly. Even now he wasn't entirely convinced that delusion of John hadn't _actually_ been a ghost, following on the heels of his dead subordinates and Lael's memory. Barsad takes a step forward to stop him, then thinks better of it.

"He appears well, if not a little stressed. A healthy weight. Still smoking. I noticed a few old bruises. He shared details with me over what he and his acquaintances have been contending with over the past weeks. It's quite a lot."

Yes, John had explained to him he was going to find the one responsible for spreading toxin throughout high-risk neighborhoods. Even as they both knew the self-titled Scarecrow was involved, he was convinced the psychologist wasn't the only player. A dangerous pursuit, though one that could benefit from the detective's unique brand of tenacious and clever.

"Has he succeeded?" Bane asks, then clarifies. "In finding his target?"

The mercenary obtains a suggestive look. "Perhaps he would share everything with you, if you gave him a call."

Bane's eyes narrow. He had avoided contacting John in light of his less-than-savory mental state. Whenever he was unsure where his pain would lead him he always withdrew, from everyone if need be, and waited until he settled out. Without Talia...he didn't trust himself to act right. That translated into three long weeks without a word, to the point where his addled brain was attempting to keep him further company with ghosts.

"I would know what he told you." He grunts as he rises to his feet. "My reasons are my own."

"Yes, I imagine so." Barsad folds his hands behind his back. "Aren't they always?" His temper flares. Bane has no patience for Barsad's paternal mindgames. He could psychoanalyze on his own time.

" _Now_."

"I have his number here. He shouldn't be busy."

"That is an _order_."

"He is a _good_ man." Bane stops in mid-step, an angry motion with a hundred unsavory consequences for them both. "I had my doubts before, but it has never been more plain. Somehow a good man has entered our midst, earned your respect, earned mine, earned _all_ of ours, and you have left him to _worry_ about you."

The anger flickers. He slowly sits again, unwillingly, and grits out a tight breath at the wounds itching under his bandages. His stomach may have only been scraped, but the surgery was a finicky one and something he would rather not repeat after a moment of ire. Like a thorn pain flares in his side, chomping through his stomach and up his ribs with little medication to stop it. Barsad takes a few cautious steps closer. He speaks in Russian now.

"Your silence has him worried. When I told him of your injuries, he was like to choke. I've never seen him so shocked. Not even when we held him in a cell." Bane loathes the softness in his voice. Like he's a beast to be coaxed out of a hole. "I have been your second for years now, Bane. I can read you better than many. This man has an effect on you I didn't think possible. With Talia gone, this is a good-"

" _Enough_." He warns, gripping the side of the cot so hard it creaks.

"I have lost my brothers to foolishness, to insanity and to Talia's influence. You tried to keep the truth from me before. _No more_. I'm supposed to leave you to this...self-imposed isolation while there is still something I can do?" He's become pale with anger. "That is not why I fight by your side. Not why I consider you a brother."

"My private relationships are not _why_ , either." Bane growls, even as his words have turned into a mirror damning his own reflection. He's an animal backed into a corner, snapping at the wind. "What am I supposed to prove to you, Barsad?"

"Tell me why you can't even give him a few words." He can see it. The man's respect for him is thinning in real-time. It's startling that _this_ , of all his recent failures, would be what broke the camel's back. "Convince me that whatever happened between you and Talia was not _your_ fault."

"You _dare_ -" Bane's voice is coarse with wrath. Before he knows it his hand whips through the small gap and snatches Barsad by his collar, yanking him forward. The man's breath stutters with fear, but his face remains implacable.

"... _Tell_ me." Even staring death in the face, he doesn't try to pull away. "Or tell me I left my family for the _wrong_ reasons."

"Because I _cannot!_ " Bane is racked by a coughing fit and he realizes, distantly, he's pushed his limits. He lets him go to lean forward and clutch his side. Without hesitating Barsad immediately drops to his knees to check his bandages and it takes all of his restraint not to push him away. "I cannot because..."

"Why?"

"Because I do _not_..." He's bitter, trembling, trying to crunch down on these words that sicken him- "...know what to _do_ with him."

The hard set to the mercenary's jaw starts to relax. Barsad leans down and looks his wounds over, quiet now, and he urges Bane's right arm up to observe his bandages. The masked man contends with the fact that his anger has run off with him, again, and he hasn't treated his brother very well at all. This is exactly what he didn't want to bring to John...and here he was, being told he had hurt the detective in a much different way.

"What to _do_ with him?" Barsad asks, thoughtfully. "That is an odd thing to say about a lover."

"He is an odd man." Bane mutters, bone weary and despising every second of it.

Barsad raises an eyebrow. "I wonder what Blake would have to say about that."

"He would tell me to look in a mirror." He huffs, not unfondly. Barsad's mouth twitches again. There's something steadying about his support in this. It's not needed, no, but it's...calming all the same.

"...You have an opportunity for something good." Barsad says as he goes to the far corner of the room and pulls out a few supplies. "If I were in your position, I wouldn't squander it." He urges Bane to take a stronger pain medication before going through the tedious process of unwrapping, disinfecting and re-wrapping.

"Your image has sustained us through all these years. It has inspired entire movements. Nightmares for the elite. But you are only human, at the end of the day." Bane marvels at how similar the man echoes John, all those weeks back at the base of the mountain. "You can't lead like this." He points at the marred flesh before covering it in sterile white. "And I don't mean just physically."

"...Your counsel is...appreciated..." Bane grits as the mercenary spreads salve across the deeper burns along his back shoulder. Barsad was not just looking out for his well-being, but John's. Ever a family man, even surrounded by death's routine. He lets his second work for a few quiet minutes, rolling these concerns in and out of his head.

"May I ask about your wife, Barsad?"

The man stops wrapping for a moment, then slowly continues.

"Go ahead."

"Why did you choose her?"

Barsad doesn't speak at first. Bane takes advantage of the moment of silence to switch out his anesthesia canisters (he can finally start returning to more consistent doses). Even years after its creation its design was compact and clever. He slips them inside as easy as he would slot a knife into its holster. Snaps the front shut and twists the wires to let in a gradual amount. The first breath has him swaying with relief.

"Everything looked a little different when she was near." Barsad was not a man who smiled often, but something of the sort twitches his mouth. "Nonna could alter the entire world with just a word."

"A creative soul." Bane says, not quite asking. He eases aside part of his mask to take a sip of his broth. It's a sour concoction, but an old mix the League has relied on for centuries that can sustain him for the better part of a day -- proteins, irons and additional minerals to ensure a strong, if not entirely satisfied, constitution. Barsad nods.

"Yes. I...imagine she still is."

Bane had always respected Barsad's decision to leave his wife and child, though it hadn't been required of him. The League Of Shadows was ever an organization built on tactical expertise, secrecy and discretion carved into its very bones. Unlike Ra's, he had allowed those who served under him to maintain relationships provided they followed rigorous protocol and completed their duties. Should a temporary relationship or long-term coupling interfere with their operations, it was treated like anything else -- either the incompatible element would be fixed or it would have to end.

Barsad, naive as he'd been fresh off of his comfortable government job, had refused. Even the slightest possibility his dangerous lifestyle could blow back on his family was one he wouldn't take. It was the earliest sign he had potential.

"In my four years serving under you...I have never known you to be interested in anyone." Barsad considers as he finishes up. "Why him?"

An easy question. A hard question. A question to go mad to. He had first considered John Blake as more than just a symptom of a bad city when he protected who _should_ have been an enemy in his eyes. He could have so easily saved his own skin when faced with a terror from deep within the storm drains, only to instead protect one of his men and befriend them later. ...Then he did it _again_. The man would only continue to make a mockery of his assumptions.

John Robin Blake escaped, a rare slip-up, only to come right back and hold a gun to his face with demands for, of _all_ things, the truth. He later treated him like a guest in his childhood home, despite his fear. Criticized his methods, then showed him sympathy untainted by pity. Then he had reached out, reached into him, and kissed him.

Reached into his life, curled up tight and settled somewhere Bane long since thought lost.

Bane looks away, somewhere where the darkness swallows corners of his room whole and urges out his innermost thoughts. Even now he can still feel the man pressed to his stomach as they listen to the rain together, his ankles curled stark cold between his thighs even as he grumbles his disapproval. His clever, dark eyes. How they would flare protectively at any hint of danger to his children, or become shy and quick when uneasy. His favorite contradictions.

When they reunite... _if_ they reunite...he was going to heed Barsad's advice. Find somewhere only they know, where time has less meaning, and pick up where they left off. Maybe even take a note from this conversation and reiterate what, exactly, he is to him. That spike of want returns, dragging through him like a rake through dirt, and misery sets over him in a pall.

"He is everything..." Bane finally says, a murmur that barely passes through the tangled cords of his mask. "...I wish I could have."

Barsad glances at him, then quietly peels off his gloves and tosses them into the bucket. He seems to deliberate over something, then reaches into his coat pocket.

"...Also, he brought you this."

Bane doesn't want to lay down yet, still twitching with leftover pain and leftover energy. The mask works quickly, however, and the soft chill of the anesthesia drapes over him like a blanket. Barsad holds something out to him. A book. Bane takes it, wincing at the texture of bandages over his more sensitive skin, and turns it over. A mystery novel. He recognizes the author, one whose name graced many a copy in the detective's apartment back during one of his rare visits. A favorite that must be near and dear to his heart, he muses as he reads the summary.

' _After her death, all Yoko wanted in life was to see her late mother's catering business take off. When she comes across a rift in time where an alternate version of herself commits a murder, she has to ask herself, again, how things could have been different._ '

A thin, folded paper sticks out of the top. Pulling it out and folding it open, he frowns curiously at the list -- Craving R. Cigarettes, two bottles of water, generic brand acetaminophen. The peer of ink through the back makes him turn it over. He's pleasantly surprised when he's greeted with John's hasty scrawl. He can hear the man's casual, low affect as clearly as if he were speaking before him.

_Hey. Just got through meeting with Barsad. I don't know when we'll be able to meet up again. He told me you got hurt pretty badly, so I thought maybe you'd like something to read while you're stuck in bed. At least, you better be stuck in bed._ (It doesn't escape his notice that 'better' is vigorously underlined.) _I know you get antsy when things need to be done, but you're not Superman. Guy's not even real, anyway. Well, this writer got me through some tough times a few years back. This is probably my favorite standalone by her._

The pain has almost faded away now. He closes his eyes, takes a long, appreciative breath, then opens them again.

_I was pretty shocked when I saw what happened to the storm drains. Everything's a goddamn mess, isn't it? Also, Amir wants to know what you think of some of his newest pieces. You're apparently his favorite art critic. Also, Trevor's back. The dog. Yeah, we really need to catch up over chess or something. There's a lot to talk about._

An unfinished sentence has been scribbled out near the bottom of the page. He peers closer, but is unable to parse out its meaning. Barsad walks out, muttering an order to another before the door shuts and swallows the room in near-darkness.

_I'll be at the Reckoning. Don't forget about me, all right?_

Bane lays back down onto the cot, reading the letter over again and smiling for the first time in days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to my rough drafts, I'm _finally_ nearing an actual final chapter count. Woah! 
> 
> In-between this update and the next I'll gradually go through and give the chapters titles (starting with this one) on top of some edits. Nothing _major_ , but rather, fixing poor sentence flow, correcting typos, maybe adding in a sentence here and there on something that feels rushed and/or underdeveloped. Just making everything read a little better. As mentioned before, I don't make a habit of doing this since I want to move _forward_ instead of dwelling, but it can also be refreshing to look over older work with a new eye and touch it up a little. ...Chapter summaries? 
> 
> Well...one thing at a time.


	44. The Reckoning: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of sexual assault and domestic violence (not explicit).

Gotham goes on full lockdown.

" _Estimations are coming in. Some say three thousand protesters already. Others say more._ " The reporter says. " _Over fifteen schools have been closed in response. Deputy Commissioner Foley has urged everyone, especially families with children, to stay home today. The list goes as follows and will be updated over the next few hours. East Elementary, East High, Brooks..._ "

Gotham hasn't been locked down in a long time. Even when it did temporarily, eight years ago, certain neighborhoods were allowed limited freedom while others were cracked down on with near-militaristic force. It didn't take a sociologist to know which ones.

 _"This lockdown is just procedure. Don't worry, this won't be interfering with the ball game._ " Foley laughs on-screen, like it's one big joke. The reporters chuckle with him, though it's clearly half-assed. " _It's about time we clocked this goon once and for all._ "

Lockdowns were only done as a last resort. People never even thought much of them the first week in...but that was before another week went by. Then another. Then _another_. It was easy to take basic freedoms for granted. Not being able to see family members or travel or conduct business-as-usual meant a government-sanctioned shutdown could have the reverse effect if a careful balance wasn't maintained.

After losing more than a few members and being made to look like complete chumps chasing after their own tails for months, the Gotham City Police Department was clearly desperate to capture Bane.

" _I have a son, Mr. Foley. Fourteen years-old._ " The reporter says. " _He's worried he won't be able to see his friends or finish his studies. How long will this be?_ "

" _I have a daughter, myself._ " Foley responds, adjusting his tie. " _It goes on as long as it's needed. Don't worry. They'll see it's for the best._ "

Blake drops by the orphanage on a combined run. Half for groceries and first aid kit supplies (an ordeal, as most places have just shut down _entirely_ in light of the upcoming riot), the other half to pick up Finn's car from the shop. Finn was worried that his 'baby' would be damaged during the protests, what with Gothamites' tendency to take out their impotent rage on the nearest static vehicle.

When Blake had brought up the fact that St. Swithin's had its _own_ run-in with violent individuals, Finn had been adamant.

"Yeah, but we know everyone here. The only kind of person who'd try to break into my car is some tourist from Metropolis who wants to bring home a souvenir." He'd said on the way back, holding the car manual in his lap like his own personal Bible. "I'll take my chances."

It was hard to believe how much the boy (young man, he reminded himself) changed over the months. Mood swings aside, he'd pulled himself together enough to pay off his shoplifting fine _and_ properly buy the car he's wanted for years. So Blake told him how proud he was, not a detail left out, from his upcoming graduation to the fact he _didn't_ ditch that abysmal snow shoveling job even though he really, really wanted to.

It was the least he could say after missing Finn's 18th birthday. A call and a late birthday present hadn't felt right then and it _still_ didn't feel right weeks later, even though Finn had insisted at the time it'd been fine. Maybe he was coming off a little strong, but he wanted him to know.

"I mean it, Finn." He'd said as he pulled up. "You've come a long way."

The young man had smiled all throughout his spiel, avoiding eye contact and pretending to look at something interesting out the window.

One-by-one everyone does their part when they pull up behind St. Swithin's and start unloading. Amir sets down his pencils, albeit reluctantly, and starts clearing off the dining room table to make room for groceries and bathroom supplies. He's disappointed when Blake tells him Behnam wouldn't be dropping by, but pulls himself together with his usual characteristic maturity and makes an airy excuse about how his magnum opus 'still could use some fine-tuning, anyway'.

Jai and Emanuel have already graduated high school, but they've both yet to move out. They insist on handling the food, treating the riots like they would a football game or a live concert -- an excuse to kick back and have a little fun with the family. Saroo and Jae-Sun are both upstairs napping (Tiya is sure to detail to him as he goes in and out of the kitchen, ever the resident gossip hen) and Christopher was double-checking the wi-fi outside.

Joel is dutifully crumpling up the empty plastic bags and storing them beneath the kitchen sink. His curly hair has grown so large it almost swallows his head, something he now bears with pride after his mother's suggestion. Blake makes sure to give them a ruffle in-between stocking.

He takes a brief break in the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water and chug it in one go. While he was growing used to the nightmares (which was probably a bad sign), the constant dry throat was a whole 'nother world of awful. The boys shuffle in and out of the cramped space with the precision of worker ants, filling up pantries and stocking the paper towels (and trying to sneak strawberries out of the bundle Blake managed to find).

"I'm a growing boy." Tiya pleads, holding up a fat, knobbly strawberry that looks less like a fruit and more like a cow heart.

"You're a growing pain." Amir mumbles, though he, too, is eyeing the basket.

"You need to grow out of whining instead of asking." Blake drawls as he tosses them both a strawberry. Reilly walks in and plucks one himself, settling beside him as he gets back to work.

"I'm keeping the boys at home. Some schools weren't shut down. It was an ordeal calling every darn one in turn to excuse their absences, but what can you do." Reilly tells him in-between bites. "Did you know Finn wanted to go downtown? So did Tiya. Kids get older, they get a big head, you know. Think they're invincible." He tosses the stem into the trash. "I told them not on their life."

"Finn's _technically_ not a kid anymore." Blake says with a grin, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and pouring himself another glass. "You better watch what you say."

"Yeah, yeah." Reilly sighs. He didn't like to show it, but he got clingy when boys aged out. His eyes grow narrow and quick when Blake hurries up with the rest of the soup cans and starts checking his watch. "Wait, are you going somewhere?"

"Yeah, Barbara and I are going downtown." He pulls out his phone and sends a quick text, then adds. "Not too close, of course. We can find a vantage point that discourages being hit in the face with a Molotov."

"Blake, don't be a hero." He says, concerned. "We need you here more than we need you becoming a story on the nine o' clock news."

"I go where I'm needed, Reilly." Blake pulls on his coat. "Like I said, I'll do my best to stay safe." He pats his pockets for good measure. "I've got a scarf, some gog-"

"No!"

Blake pauses, then slowly turns around. Finn is shaking, holding a roll of tape in one hand and the other clenched into a fist at his side.

"...Finn?"

"I'm worried about you, too. We're all worried about you. Jesus _Christ_ , Blake..." Reilly frowns at that and he waves his hand. "I know, sorry, I know. Just...every time you come over here you're always smoking when you said you'd quit or you're covered in bruises or..." He pushes his hair out of his eyes. "I just, don't...don't go."

The other boys eye Finn carefully. Jay reaches out a hand to put on his shoulder, then thinks better of it and pulls back again. The previous hubbub of the kitchen has now dimmed to complete silence.

"Remember when those guys attacked us?" Finn asks, softly. "The ones that tried to rob us?"

"Don't think I could forget that. Not when they told me to stop smoking." Blake responds, trying for a spot of humor. It doesn't carry, though. If anything, Finn just looks more miserable. "...Hey..."

"I..." He starts, then stops, though the pain on his face tells him plenty.

Blake looks at all the faces in the kitchen. Staring at him like he's about to face the firing squad. Amir's dark eyes keep flicking up from his drawing on the round kitchen table, even as he tries to keep his face obscured by the cardstock. Jay's hands are twitching with hesitant words. Even Tiya is quiet, nibbling on his strawberry.

Blake leans back against the cupboard and runs a hand through his hair. The floor lets out a plaintive _creak_. As if it's begging him to stay, too.

_She's screaming, the raw squall that can only come from a mother's grief, waving the knife just inches in front of him. Even through the freeze of cold panic he's hurting with her. He could've saved that shy little girl. The kid who always looked at her shoes in his office, who had probably been framed and none the wiser, who had an entire future to look forward to and instead chose certainty over the uncertain-_

Blake shakes himself visibly, but he can feel the rush of downtown foot traffic bustling around him, the stench of fresh blood on the breeze. Finn's eyes slowly narrow with confusion. Tiya glances at Reilly, then back to him, brown eyes round with concern.

" _They put me on hold! She's still in there!_ "

" _What girl...? Who?_ "

" _My daughter!_ "

Blake grips his hair with both hands, tightly, then feels his palms grind into the sharp edge of the counter and the back of his head hit the pantry. The pain jolts him back to reality, as sudden as a drop, and he realizes, distantly, he'd nearly fallen over. He looks around, sharply, and gapes in growing horror at the worried faces surrounding him.

"...ah, are you okay...?" Tiya is asking, bobbing in front of him to better see his face. "You look-"

"Give him some space, back up, _back up_." Reilly is saying, sharply, sliding hands in-between the boys and nudging them to the side. "Give him some air."

"S-Should I call 911?" Amir stammers somewhere in the cluster of bodies.

"Yeah, yeah, call them. He looks like he's going to pass out-" Finn says, hurriedly. "Use my phone-"

What the hell was happening to him? What _now?_ First his dreams...now his waking hours? It's a chilling fear that crawls up him at the realization, though it's starting to be replaced by anger, a nauseating fury that something so simple could mess up people so thoroughly. The emotion would be more welcome if it weren't for how scared everyone looks.

"No...no, I'm fine, I'm fine." Blake says, finally, and puts on a smile that doesn't seem to fit on his face. "Don't call the ambulance. I'm fine. Just...not enough sleep."

"...That's what I'm talking about." Finn mutters, sounding both sad and on-edge with his phone out. "That, right there. You don't look well at all."

Blake's smile fades. He pulls himself upright fully, then blinks when something cold nudges his hand. Amir is pushing a glass of water into his hand.

"Got you some water." He says, shakily. "You said you were thirsty.

"I...did?" Blake blinks. Then it all finally sinks in. "...Okay." He takes the cup and takes a sip under Amir's watchful gaze. "Okay. I'll stay."

It's a compromise. After checking him a few more times (Amir seems thoroughly unconvinced, still, and insists on refilling his cup for him), everyone returns to their stations. Except for Jay, who's tapping him on the arm urgently.

"Can you help me find Joel?" He asks, face scrunched with worry. "He ran off. Did Finn yell?"

Blake looks around. Hiding was something Joel did a lot the first few months he started living at St. Swithin's. It was a leftover from his abusive household. The safe zones he had to construct for himself when he was scared, panicking or in danger. The kid shared with the therapist how he would hide anywhere he could to avoid his father during his rages. Fortunately for him, he had become very good at being hidden when he wanted -- he would even switch his hiding place every time to avoid being found.

Unfortunately for Blake, that meant it could be hours before he found him again.

"...Joel?" He calls out. "Where'd you go?"

Blake talks just loud enough. The walls are thin and voices carry easily. Blake knows, whether he's outside or inside, he can likely hear him. He really hopes the kid isn't outside. He agreed wholeheartedly with Finn, it was a good community, but Joel was only seven.

He's not in the bathroom or the living room. Jay waves for his attention, then tells him he'll look upstairs, jogging up two steps at a time in his haste. Blake doesn't have the same energy. The panic attack has left him feeling strangely drained, like he just got through with a five-hour assignment. So he continues to walk, however urgently, throughout the bottom level.

Trevor pads after him, sniffing the ground every once in a while. Blake pats her head idly, then stops when he reaches the dining room.

"...Hey."

Blake slowly leans down to rest his elbows on his knees, peering at the tiny feet he can just barely see poking through the gap between the white lace and floor. He holds his hands out to him -- not a demand, but an offer. Trevor nuzzles her head under the tablecloth, tail wagging furiously at what she's found.

"I'm sorry, Joel." He whispers. "I know that was scary."

He waits for a minute. Maybe two. Then, as slow as a butterfly crawling out of its cocoon, Joel crawls out from under the table, wipes his wet nose and walks into his outstretched arms. Blake lets him snuffle into his chest for a few minutes, ignoring the strain that's starting to shake his legs. Trevor laps at Joel's ears, hard enough to nearly knock them both over.

"...You sounded like you were gonna die." Joel sniffles. "Then Finn got really upset and...he thought you were gonna..."

"I'm..." ' _I might, Joel. I might, and I'm sorry._ ' "...okay. I'm okay, see?" Blake twists his head to the side and makes a face. Joel lets out a watery laugh and sniffles again, though snot is running down regardless. Trevor tries to help him out by licking dutifully at his face.

" _Ew!_ " Joel squeals, batting her away. Blake jumps to his feet, holding Joel in the crook of his arm.

"Yeah, that's pretty gross." He admits. "Come on. Let's get you a tissue."

Reilly pulls him aside after he washes his face with Joel, as much to put him at ease as to wash away the cold sweat that had clung to his skin after his attack.

"All right. You need to tell me what you've been up to." Reilly says when they go out onto the porch. "I'm not talking about your freelance job or anything like that. What's got you always coming to the orphanage with bruises or those panic attacks?" His bushy brows furrow at Blake's expression. "Yes, the boys have told me about the _other_ ones." His voice lowers. "...Or when you wake up screaming whenever you sleep over."

Blake lets out a long, cold sigh and watches it float out onto the street. It's odd, how normal everything still feels on the day of Gotham's biggest protest. He can even smell the scent of barbecue somewhere on the breeze, though there's less car activity. A tiny girl rides in lazy circles on a tricycle under the watchful eye of her mother down the sidewalk.

"I'm trying to make the city a better place." He says, pushing his hands into his pockets and making eye contact again. "That means doing some...dangerous things."

"Yes, you keep saying that. But how? With what? With _whom?_ " He rubs his temple. "Blake, you're just as stubborn as ever. I don't know what we did to deserve so many secrets."

"What?" Blake reels back, stung. "No, that's not why-"

"Blake, _listen_ to me. I can't beat around the bush with you here. I've been getting sick more than I can handle. I won't be able to be working at the orphanage full-time anymore. ...Or part-time. My doctor told me I should retire a few years earlier than I want to because the stress will kill me otherwise." He leans against the porch railing. "Do you remember why I took over for St. Trevor?" He frowns down at the dog when she peeks her head out of the doggy door. "...Not you."

"Yeah." Blake mutters. He feels fourteen again. "You wanted to give at-risk kids another shot at a better life."

"Yes. I took a big chance on you, back then. People told me I was making a huge mistake, that you were better off for an institution after what you did." Reilly's eyes are hard, but they're hard with emotion. The kind of worry that never truly leaves a parent's gaze no matter how many years go by. "But I knew you had some serious good in you. You've done nothing but prove me right over the years."

_A freckled boy sits on nothing. He sticks his tongue out petulantly, taunting as boys do from their little makeshift purchases, despite the gaping hole in his head..._

Blake swallows thickly and grinds his nails into his palm, nodding to show he's still listening.

"I don't want to be proven wrong." Reilly puts a hand on his shoulder, but it's not comforting. "If you don't want to share with me the details of your dangerous life that's fine. If you put the boys in danger with _whatever_ it is you're doing, though...you can't come by anymore. In fact...you might be better off staying out of their lives entirely."

Blake lowers his gaze, shamefaced and solemn. Fucking hell. He _never_ wanted this to happen. All he wanted, before some murderer blinked him out of existence or some failure in his veins had him choking on his own breath, was to make sure his boys had nothing but green lights to look forward to. He kept his secrets to keep them _safe_. What would he say if he knew what happened between him and Bane? If he actually sat him down, detail-for-detail, and told him everything that's happened over the months? He would kick him out. Then and there.

Blake blinks when Reilly pulls him into a hug. A gruff, yet warm, hug.

"You know I don't want this." He mutters, pulling away just as quick. "I want you here, Blake. I want the boys to have their big brother nearby. But their safety comes first." The old Father's mouth twitches in an almost-smile. "Would've said the same thing about you...when you were their age."

"Of course." He says, even these basic words feeling like ashes on his tongue. "Wouldn't expect anything else."

Barbara arrives not fifteen minutes later, punctual as ever. She's dressed in a smart purple peacoat and brown leggings. It's interesting to see her curly red hair bouncing over her shoulders -- it was often held back in a braid or wrapped up in a bun due to her busy schedule. When he gives her the abridged version of what happened inside and tells her he won't be going downtown, it doesn't take her long to reach another conclusion.

"It's not a problem. I'll stay and watch the protests with you. I mean, Grandpa _did_ tell me to stay near the less-populated areas." She coughs into her hands. "And certain neighborhoods."

"He _probably_ told you to stay home and bar the doors." Blake drawls. She's recently turned twenty (yet _another_ milestone he's sorry for missing), but she'll always feel like a little sister. It doesn't help she's a little on the short side and has eyes almost as round and brown as Joel's.

"I can handle myself." She squares her shoulders, though she's still a few inches shorter than he is. "I take weekend classes, remember?"

"It's not the same as a street fight." Finn glances at him from where he sits in front of the T.V. "Not even close."

"You're suggesting I haven't _been_ in a street fight." She says, slyly. Blake raises his eyebrows at that and she laughs, holding up her hands. "I'm kidding. I'm kidding- _woah there-_ " She tries to push Trevor down as the she jumps up for kisses -- she's got a fancy new collar now, though it barely shows through her neck fluff.

Barbara's probably _not_ kidding, not when she's one of the worst liars he's ever met, but he just rolls his eyes and motions her into the living room. Whatever she was doing he likely couldn't talk her out of. At least, not with a single conversation. Barbara was normally pretty cooperative, but when she got stubborn, it was enough to make _him_ look like a pushover.

It would be nice to catch up, at least. Even if it was to the backdrop of half of Gotham burning down.

The young woman cuddles with Trevor on the couch as Tiya shows him the video he's been watching on his phone. The other boys have their phones out, too, tuned into their favorite live feeds. Someone downtown is avidly filming the proceeds as they occur -- the most interesting bit, by far, is when they come across a woman wearing a black leather jacket over a fluffy red skirt and diamond-print leggings. Borderline clownish, even before she starts jumping on cars and doing backflips.

Blake rubs his forehead when Harleen's two hyenas lope onto the screen, one dyed bubblegum pink and the other a vivid green.

" _This is quite the party, I reckon!_ " She laughs in a faux-Southern accent, kneeling to take a brief selfie with one of the protesters before hopping back up and yelling obscenities so crude Blake catches Reilly turning an impressive shade of crimson out of the corner of his eye. " _Is everyone ready for the bash of the year?_ "

She does a handstand on top of the truck, then flips forward to land on her feet with the grace of an acrobat. A scattering of applause and cheers follow. An officer steps into the frame not seconds later. He's gesturing at her to get down. He's followed by two more of his peers, dressed in riot gear and looking both turns agitated and confused. Harleen promptly turns around, lifts up her skirt and moons them -- the camera zooms in closer to see 'Don't Be A Butthead' printed on the seat of her underwear.

"Oh my _god_." Barbara gasps, covering up her laugh hastily when Reilly shoots her a look.

" _You'll never take me alive, coppers!_ " Harleen cackles, plenty loud enough to hear over the hubbub. " _C'mon, boys! Let's blow this joint!_ " Like trained dogs her hyenas follow her as she hops from the truck to another car in an imitation of Frogger.

" _Are those fucking real?! They're fucking hyenas, bro-_ " The recorder is yelling, half in delight and half in wild fear. " _Holy shi-"_ "

One of the hyenas, the smaller one with neon-green fur, has snatched one of the officers' batons and yanked them straight off their feet. The other has all but run away. Blake's stomach tightens when the third officer fires what seem to be rubber bullets at the pink one. Harleen swings her bat right in their face for the trouble, shattering their visor into what seems like a thousand pieces.

"She's gonna get _arrested_." Tiya gasps, cranking up the volume as high as it can go. "For hitting an officer or having illegal animals or jumping on a car or _all_ of those things at the same time."

"If they can find her through all that glass, that is." Jay adds, reaching over to twist the video feed to where he can better see.

"She kinda reminds me of Harley Quinn. Joker's sidek-hey, wait, did you see that video of the Batgirl?" Amir suddenly asks. Despite his calm tone his eyes are alight with excitement. "The one where she defended that boy from getting arrested? My friends at school know him. He goes to Brooks."

"I did." Blake responds. He glances at Amir's phone -- he's rewatching the popular video of the titular 'Batgirl' that's been spotted here and there over the past few weeks. Amir rewinds to the part where the costume-clad woman is confronting the officer in the middle of the street over an unlawful arrest. Blake feels a familiar protective lurch in his heart when he again sees the boy in question, leaning over the hood of a car on his stomach in cuffs and trying to swallow back sobs.

"Impressive form." Blake says as they get to the most famous part of the clip, the roundhouse kick that sends a full-grown man to the ground like a dead tree. "I'm a little worried she took the kid _with_ her, though. They're probably going to interrogate him and his family. If they don't outright detain them all. She would've been better off leaving him be and just providing a distraction."

"Yeah..." Amir mutters as the video ends. "My friends say they haven't seen him since it happened."

Barbara looks like she just stepped in something. Blake cocks an eyebrow at her. She catches his gaze, startled, then shakes her head vigorously, tucking a strand of curly red hair behind one ear before rubbing Trevor's snout.

"Oh, that's...a good point." She says. "Didn't think of it like that."

The boys' lively hubbub dies down when Bane appears on the living room television.

He's draped in his aged sheepskin coat, armor and fatigues. A look that's become as classic as his reputation. Dozens of League members (maybe even hundreds) armed to the teeth and boasting vivid red scarves flank the makeshift stage constructed from a pile of ruined cars. He thinks he can spot Barsad's pale face not a few feet away from the masked man. Something is on fire nearby. ...No, _many_ things.

Bane walks up the mountain of rubble to the precarious top. The plume of smoke billowing behind him makes him look like he stepped straight out of a painting.

" _You have waited patiently for justice to arrive_." He booms over the mic, pausing when they cheer raucously. He nods for their attention and waits until they calm down before continuing. " _Arrive it already has, Gotham, in the form of you_." 

A few enthused shouts follow his words. He can just make out a smaller crowd through the cluttered audio, closer to the front, shouting in unison, " _Siempre el futuro!_ " There are a few different groups standing out amid the gray and black like spots on a dog's coat. 'We, The Masked' are probably the most colorful of the bunch, contrasting with the fact they're all wearing masks -- knock-offs of Bane's, imitations of Batman's, gas masks galore.

There are even a few people wearing _Joker_ masks. They were probably going to get punched first.

" _How long have you waited, Gotham, for a city that supports you as much as you do it?_ " Bane is asking the crowd. " _How long have you suffered at the hands of a brutal system that would leech off your efforts without even a hint of gratitude?_ " A few voices cry back. " _How many have died waiting for better?_ "

The crowd is all but screaming now. It's astonishing how easily he holds thousands of peoples' attention. No, not just holds their attention. _Inspires_ them. A flicker of envy passes through Blake at how incredible it would be to have something close to the respect and adoration he has. It's not the first time he's felt it. He pushes it down.

Blake had _his_ respect. That meant something.

"How is he not afraid of being _shot_?" Barbara asks, tone wavering between disdainful and wondering. "He never covers his head. At least, not entirely."

"A lot of mayors and politicians don't, either." Amir offers, phone now off.

"They also weren't public enemies." Barbara responds, only to add, a touch hesitantly. "Well...most of them."

"He got this far. It must be more than luck." Blake says distractedly, staring intently at the screen. What he _doesn't_ say is that he's had more than one vivid daydream that went south where Bane got a bullet right through the eye. Or went up in flames from an explosion. Or got mobbed by a group of government agents.

A mingled cluster of affection, longing and helpless worry drops in his stomach like a stone. He just _had_ to get involved with someone who was always staring danger in the face and chortling about it. Then again, as the boys showed earlier...he was more than a little hypocritical.

"Probably putting on a show. These types are all about image, even if it kills them." Reilly says, then gives him a suggestive nudge with his elbow. "I bet Behnam could take him."

"Yeah." Blake chuckles. "Probably."

The camera swivels closer to activity below. Something's happening. The crowd parts to reveal two mercenaries all but _dragging_ someone up to the stage. Blake looks around as best he can through the shaky feed for any sight of Commissioner Gordon or Foley or anyone he knows. Judging by Barbara's darting eyes, she's searching, too.

" _Jackson Pearce. A former officer of the Gotham Police Department who was fired after 'misconduct' with multiple women three years ago._ " Bane booms to the crowd. " _This man faced no jail time. Only a trial with his friends as his judge and jury. He was free to do what he pleased after he did as he pleased_." The crowd jeers viciously. Even from an impressive distance Pearce's face is white as a sheet. " _Is this justice, Gotham?_ "

The masked man tilts his head in consideration at the unmistakable answer. Then he turns and gestures imperiously for the man's attention, holding the mic to his face when he looks up.

" _Speak your part_."

Blake glances at Barbara. She was still wishy-washy when it came to issues of criminal justice. On one hand, she was studying to be an investigator -- she had the smarts _and_ the dedication for the role. On the other hand, she hadn't taken Gordon's part in the Dent Act well. So he's a little surprised by how hard her expression is, even casually lounging back against the pillows with Trevor's head in her lap and Joel happily muttering into a magazine beside her.

"I know him." She says, voice deceptively light as not to catch the kid's attention. "Grandpa was one of only two people that tried to get him jail time."

Pearce's voice quivers so hard over the mic it's almost hard to understand him. What manages to get across is exactly what Blake expects to hear. A long-winded tale about how nobody heard _his_ side of the story, about his ruined _reputation_ , intermittent pleas for forgiveness. Blake had joined the force not long after this very man was fired. The scandal had flashed across the news for the better part of a _month_ as more and more victims came forth with similar stories.

He had hoped Pearce's firing had been a sign of progress. All it had _actually_ been was the legal effect of having one's cake and eating it. Get rid of him to maintain a good reputation. _Don't_ give him any sort of punishment lest any other officers, politicians or upper-class snots with a finger in every pie start getting nervous. Blake had hoped his presence would've done something about it.

All he'd gotten was a meager resume, a struggling acquaintanceship with the Commissioner and the nickname 'hothead'. A conga line of misplaced hopes with no results in sight.

His sour recollection almost has him missing Bane's gesture to someone in the crowd. Everyone in the room leans forward as the camera zooms in clumsily. The cluster of heads are gradually parting, revealing a short woman with dark, coily hair, stiff with nerves but walking up onto the makeshift stage with purpose. The camera pans up to show the masked man's face. His expression is calm...and sad.

Bane introduces her as one of the man's victims. The crowd is hushed.

He looks almost fatherly, the hem of his coat swaying in the breeze as he leans down a little to hear what she has to say. He does, however, carefully keep the mic out of earshot. She's gripping her elbow with one hand and gesturing with the other hand. Blake realizes with a start she may not be a woman...but a _girl_.

" _Would you like to do the honors?_ " Bane asks politely after she's finished speaking . Blake can just make out her shaking her head. A few tentative murmurs ripple through the audience. " _...Very well_."

He reaches down, mic still in hand, and twists the man's neck. The _crack_ echoes over the stereo, but the roar that follows is deafening. Barbara has a hand to her mouth. Reilly looks like he's seriously regretting not changing the channel. The boys, however, are transfixed. Save for Joel, whose eyes are being covered by Jay.

Pearce is not the first and far from the last. Another is marched up to their execution, their struggling form held in place by two of Bane's mercenaries, and ends up being another Blake knows from the force. Bane takes them by the head and snuffs them out, one-by-one, as easily as if they were livestock. 

Amir hasn't looked up from his sketchbook all the while, but the death grip on his pencil suggests it's not because he's transfixed by his work. Joel squeaks plaintively, trying to look past Jay's hands at what has everyone so quiet. Barbara, ever clever, asks him a question about his cookbook as a distraction.

Jeff is marched up. He'd recognize that shaved blonde head anywhere. Barbara glances to him, at that, but Blake doesn't break his gaze from the television. Not when he's given a chance to speak after having his dirty laundry aired out for everyone to see -- harassment, participating in the bombing of City Hall, a stalking charge. Not when he begs for forgiveness. Not when Bane kills him.

"Unbelievable." Reilly mutters, shaking his head. "I'm not a fan of how things are run, but this...this is too much..."

"Did Bane try to..." Tiya starts asking Blake, only to glance at Joel. "Um...you know...get you, um...?"

"Yeah." Blake says, calmly. "But he wouldn't have looked at me twice if I hadn't joined the force."

Perhaps the most unsettling detail of all is the lack of police activity. They glimpsed officers here and there in the video feeds earlier. Riot gear, even a few plainsclothes, but nothing as organized as would be expected for Gotham's largest riot to date. Judging by the mercenaries flanking Bane and sprinkled within the crowd, they were clearly more than ready for what's to come.

Bane even lets a few of the protesters come onto the stage (a few of the nearby mercenaries personally help the less able-bodied make their way up) and talk about why they had attended 'The Reckoning' in the first place. Every testimonial is more gut-wrenching than the last. People from varying age groups and ethnic backgrounds and genders talking about their losses. Their fears. One, judging by their incredibly weathered skin and tattered clothes, may very well be homeless.

Then Bane takes the mic and urges for their undivided attention.

" _Alas, I am but one man. I could not be here forever to see your future grow with you, nor should I be. It is with a heavy heart that I will soon leave you all with a parting gift. A four megaton bomb will be yours...held in thrall by your hopes and ambitions_." Bane says. " _Who will hold the trigger, you ask? That will be for you to decide, today, as you take Gotham back from the corrupt_."

"A... _bomb_?" Barbara breathes. "Four megatons?"

"He's _insane_." Reilly gapes, wringing his hands. "That goes off and the whole city is gone."

Like the pin on a grenade, the crowd goes from stunned silence to something much louder when a plume of white descends from the air like a curse.

Blake leans forward in horror as officers seem to pop out of nowhere in the crowd. A helicopter -- no, _two_ \-- are descending on the crowd below and dropping what seem to be massive amounts of tear gas with complete impunity. The mercenaries surrounding the stage aren't firing. They're spreading out. It makes sense. Trained League soldiers had no problem popping off a helicopter. If it fell on the crowd, however...

Bane turns, steps off the car and vanishes into the growing smoke.

"Holy shit." Finn breathes. "Holy _shit_."

"They're gonna blind people." Amir says, horrified. "They didn't even warn them!"

"They should've assembled peacefully. That's no excuse to commit murder like some sideshow act. Despicable." Reilly grouses. Blake feels frustration and pride mingle in his chest when the boys glance to one another. Their Father was old-fashioned, for better and for worse. They, however, had dealt with the wrong side of the law first-hand.

"But why did that guy get a trial judged only by people he knew?" Jay asks reasonably. "That's not fair, you know."

"Didn't Bane kind of hold trials back at the City Hall?" Amir asks. "I remember hearing about those." Blake can't help but smile. He's more talkative than usual. Then again, he had always been deeply interested in Gotham's dark underbelly. His Batman obsession wasn't just mere aesthetic.

"Yeah, he did. Then the Department blew it up." Blake says. He remembers Bane smashing open a windowpane and jumping out of the multiple-story building like it was nothing. "Guess that tells you everything you need to know, huh?"

"Didn't Bane and his cronies murder people there, too?" Reilly presses. "That's not right. Laws aren't always followed, they aren't always right, but we _need_ them."

"We don't _need_ a city that thinks letting sex offenders go free and arresting children is justice." Blake says, tone hard. "We deserve better."

Reilly's mouth thins. Barbara glances between them nervously, having been conspicuously silent all the while. In typical Swithin's fashion a conversation turns into a chorus of voices fighting for dominance. The atmosphere in the room is so terse everyone jumps a foot in the air, dog included, when his phone rings.

Blake stops in mid-apology when he sees it's an unknown number. A few months back he would've ignored it as a spam call. Now his heart jumps in his throat. He gets up from the couch and holds up a finger to let them know he'll be back, hands trembling as he opens up the screen and hits the receiver and tries to find a private area to talk.

" _John._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I _may_ have actually gone back and did some serious editing over multiple chapters. Like, fixing typos and sentence flow... _and_ rewriting paragraphs I flat-out didn't like. Nothing plot-related, no, but if anyone feels like re-reading here's hoping it reads way better than before!
> 
> For those that don't...here's the first part of two chapters!


	45. The Reckoning: Part Two

Group photos and magazine clippings pass him by as he moves down the hallway and further out of earshot. In that short span he feels his mind picking apart everything a single syllable could hold, mentally (and emotionally) stuffing the gap between them full like a mother bird with an incomplete nest.

"...Hey." He finally manages to say when he thumps his back against the far wall. A cluster of framed baby photos decorate the wall across from him. His mouth works to say _something_ more, but it feels dry as paper. "How'd your, uh...presentation go?"

" _Quite well._ " Bane sounds like he's smiling. " _Though the best part is yet to come_." 

"Yeah...?" He says, lamely. "No kidding."

Blake rubs the back of his head. He sounds good, and he's glad, but, _damn_. He's frustrated at the lack of contact. Still a little hurt that he couldn't get so much as two words when the man could've all been dying miles away without him any the wiser. At the same time he can feel his logic brain giving his gut a swift kick to the...well, _gut_ and telling him that's a side-effect of dating a mercenary.

The bungled mess sits in his chest like a bad cold and he wants to sort it out before saying another word.

" _Where are you now?_ " Bane asks, saving him the trouble. " _It is rather quiet, so you must not be at the orphanage._ "

"Actually, I'm at the orphanage. Everyone's in the living room watching...the news." Blake glances behind him, then back again. "You?"

" _Somewhere quite nice._ " He hears something in the background, something like the shuffling of papers or footsteps. The sounds echo back and forth, like a whisper. " _At least Gotham has not entirely abandoned reading._ "

Bane must be at the Gotham City Public Library, then. Not too far from where he had been downtown. He remembers how the Bruce Wayne Foundation had originally donated a hefty sum when the place was being threatened with a shutdown. He's not sure if he wants to correct Bane on that little detail. Maybe he'd be better off making a joke or asking him about the novel he got him. Instead what comes out of his mouth is:

"...Why didn't you call me?" He _hates_ how the words sound when they're out. But he can't pull them back. "I mean, I'm not trying to badger...it's just. Barsad told me, but I want to hear it from you. Or just...hear from you. At all." Words aren't usually so clumsy. He feels young and stupid and out of his element.

" _I was unwell_."

"I know that." His chest grows hot with indignation. "But even just something, _anything_ to give me peace-of-mind, would've helped. I was worried sick about you. I didn't hear a word for over three weeks, I honestly thought the worst-"

" _Let me rephrase that, John_." Bane interjects, though his voice is low. " _I...am unwell_."

It takes the steam right out of him. Blake leans off the wall and moves a little deeper into the hallway, only to go right back up it, trying to physically meander through the aftermath. He's not sure what to say now. Not when Bane opening up a little was, technically, what he actually wanted. He wants to wait for the man to continue, but he's gone quiet. For someone so comfortable with the art of speech he could be remarkably stoic.

"Right. I can't imagine. I'm...sorry about what happened." Blake starts, a sentiment both broad and very specific. He doesn't say he's afraid, yet again, for his life. For his boys and for Gotham's safety. He knows Bane knows. Instead he lets the unspoken fill the gap between them, the faint static over the phone as loud as a roar.

" _I cannot apologize to you for recovering._ " Bane says. " _...But I should not have kept you at bay._ "

"No, it's...whatever, I was just..." Blake sighs. "I'm sorry. I wasn't being fair."

" _I appreciate your platitudes, though they are unnecessary._ " Bane murmurs. " _We are talking now. So, tell me. How have you been, John?_ "

"I've...been. A lot's happened." It's easier to just regurgitate the past weeks' events, so he starts by sharing with him what happened in The Narrows, starting with Scarecrow's operation to the victims caught up in his experiments. When he mentions Talia's involvement, he presents it as quickly as he does everything else -- just another detail, rather than yet _another_ dagger in what was clearly their relationship's coffin.

He has to blow out a sigh before detailing Scarecrow's disappearance. The horrific injuries and missing persons that followed in his wake. It's not as merry a catch-up session as he'd rather, but it was either that or talk about it when they meet up in-person...where he'd _much_ rather fill up the time physically.

" _I see._ " Bane just sounds...tired. " _I should have killed him when I had the chance._ "

"Well. I didn't, either." He catches Tiya peeking at him from down the hallway and raises his eyebrows to let him know he still needs more privacy. "If that makes you feel better."

" _Personal feelings are a least concern._ " Bane's sharp tone actually perks him up. It sounds much more like him. " _Were is he, then?_ "

"No clue." He admits. "My partner had originally wanted to take him in alive for questioning. Learn more about the toxin and whatnot. Then she got infected by the toxin and kind of tried to kill me."

" _Is that so?_ " His tone is suddenly very dark. Blake pauses. Their unusual relationship had him sometimes forgetting just how dangerous he was. The images of the multiple murders the masked man committed not a half hour ago flash in his mind. A vivid reminder.

"It wasn't her fault. Crane had been finding _all_ sorts of ways to get his toxin into people. He cut her during our little scrap. It took longer to take effect than the airborne chemical, but it worked just as well. Who knows where else he's putting that shit." Blake nibbles on his lip. Well, he's shared this much. He might as well go all the way. "Harley Quinn. Harleen Quinzel, that is, though she insists on being called Harleen."

" _The Joker's accomplice...?_ " Bane murmurs, voice thoughtful now...and still a touch murderous. " _An interesting choice._ "

"We had a talk about that. There's...a _lot_ more to her story than meets the eye." He doesn't go into too much detail (her abuse was hers to truly share) but he makes sure to stress the rock and a hard place she'd been in. He wasn't sure if he'd call her a friend, not yet, but she was an ally. That much was for sure.

" _And you believe her tale?_ " Bane asks when he's finished. Blake bristles defensively.

"I've seen more than enough victims of domestic violence to know she wasn't making it up." He responds. "She was a massive help finding Crane, even though he got away. In fact, she took the blow _for_ me when he tried to stick me with the infected knife. Even now she's up in the Acres working with others to find him." He pauses. "Well, not _now_ now. She's stirring up shit downtown with her hyenas."

" _...Hyenas._ "

"Yeah. Hyenas. Two, actually. With pink and green fur."

" _I am starting to realize you are a magnet for all sorts of oddities._ "

"Ha. What does that make you, then?"

Bane laughs. Not a chuckle or that stilted coughing noise he sometimes did, but a full and hearty _laugh_. Blake is momentarily startled. Then he's chuckling himself, a bubble of energy he struggles to put a lid on as not to attract attention from the boys that spills over anyway. He holds the sound close to his chest, warm as a stovetop now, in case he doesn't hear it for a while.

" _Has the toxin affected you overmuch...?_ " Bane asks when he's calmed down, though his tone is considerably lighter. Blake aches all over to hear it in-person. " _The side-effects..._ "

"Uh, it's..." He lets out an exasperated huff. "No, it's shit. It's a doozy. You weren't kidding about those realistic hallucinations. I had a few that...well."

" _What did you dream about?_ " Bane asks. " _Crane's work is unnecessarily cruel, but it was...is...notoriously apt for its unraveling of the human psyche. Perhaps in better hands it could be used for good._ "

He thinks back to that bright, sunny coastal city with no name. The sweltering heat that stuck his collar to his collar and the equally heated smiles from a friendly stranger at the bar with a lot to say and just a day to say it. If he closes his eyes he can almost see the amber light struggling to peer through the dark hotel room they shared.

"I've thought about them more than I'd like to admit." He begins. "Harleen and I talked about it and compared it to Gotham Nights. It's a late night drama that went on for a few seasons before being canceled after a writer's strike. A show about parallel realities tucked in alleyways that everyday people would sometimes walk into." He clarifies before continuing. "I had one dream where I was in another city. I was a lawyer and my parents were alive. ...You were there, too."

" _Oh?_ "

"You were...different. Sort of. Very charming. A little less intimidating, though not by much." He grins at Bane's amused grunt. "You were a historian and a teacher. Went by Behnam. You only wore the mask when cage-fighting."

" _Without my mask._ " He responds craftily -- he no doubt remembered Blake's curiosity. " _A dream or a flight of fancy, John?_ "

"Eh. Could be both. I mean, you also had an ex-wife with kids. Wouldn't stop bragging about them. A real fatherly type." He realizes after a quick second he probably should've kept that little detail to himself. The space between had tripped him up on the man's boundaries, apparently.

" _Let me guess_." Bane muses. " _Talia was one of them._ "

"Yeah." He says, a little relieved he hasn't clammed up again. "Talia and Mari, I think they were called. It was interesting, I remember glancing at my phone in my dream. My father went by his last name. He changed from Benczi to Blake, my mother's last name, when he came to Gotham so he wouldn't stick out. I never really found out what it-"

" _Where did you hear that?_ "

"What? Benczi?"

" _Mari._ "

"I...didn't. It was in my dream." Blake shifts nervously at the man's tone. He's been all over the place in the past fifteen or twenty minutes and it's growing harder to keep up with his moods. "Why, what's wrong?"

" _It's nothing. Continue._ "

"It didn't sound like nothing." Blake sighs. "Come on. Talk to me. Don't pull away like that."

" _...Mari was Talia's twin sister._ " Bane says. " _She died a few days after being born._ "

"That's..." His skin has gone from mild prickling to goosebump overdrive. "...weird."

" _What was my ex-wife's name?_ " Bane presses. The question makes Blake cringe. He couldn't forget that detail. Not how it had bubbled out of Behnam's...Bane's...mouth through a well of blood as he lay on the ground with a knife in his gut..

"Lily? Laila?" Blake mutters, scratching his cheek. "No...No. It started with an L, I know that much..."

" _Lael?_ "

"Yeah, that's it!" He exclaims, only to go still. "...What the _hell?_ "

The masked man doesn't speak for a few moments. Neither does he. The television blares down the hall, too muffled for him to make out, but the reaction of the boys suggests it's something violent. When he finally does speak again Bane sounds like he's holding something back, even as he muses if he or Talia had mentioned it in passing.

It's making the hair on his neck stand on end and he really wants to just change the subject. But he's a detective. He wants to know what's under the surface.

"Who's Lael...?" He asks, then hastily adds. "If it's all right for me to ask..."

" _Talia's mother._ " A long pause. " _...and the first friend I ever made._ "

He remembers what Bane told him all those weeks back. How the victims of Jonathan Crane's work claimed their hallucinations weren't just delusions, but actual glimpses into other realities. Blake wasn't religious. He was barely superstitious. But the line between fantasy and reality was starting to blur...and it would be a lot easier to deal with if they were all nightmares.

" _It's not real, John._ " Bane says, his melodious accent both wise and morose through the speaker. " _None of it is._ "

"Of course not." Blake responds softly. "It couldn't be."

" _I finished your book_."

"Oh?" He perks up eagerly. "You read it all?"

" _Yes. The novel, and your note, have done a meager job of keeping me company._ "

"Oh." Blake winces. "You didn't like it?"

" _It was quite compelling, actually._ " Bane elaborates." _A bold premise that encouraged the exploration of many difficult questions, as good literature should do. I found the ending where Yoko decides to choose her original reality over the alternate rather interesting. But it wasn't a fitting replacement, I fear._ " It takes Blake a moment he was talking about him.

"Aw, kiss my ass. That's a really good book." Blake curls his hand under his arm and leans against the wall, trying and failing to hold back a smile. "You might not realize it, but you're giving me a _huge_ head right now."

" _Oh, I am aware_." Bane's voice grows throaty. A longing timber he can almost feel through the phone. " _Ever aware of the impact you have had on this city. My men. ...Myself._ "

"...Yeah?" Blake swallows. Butterflies starting to beat around in his stomach. "Sounds like you're going to say something corny."

" _There is a lot I haven't said._ " Bane says, somehow straightforward and somehow mysterious, hidden meanings layered between every word. " _I am not fond of regret. It is a waste of time. Yet I have stood face-to-face with it more than once over the weeks. Months...perhaps._ "

"Regrets are wind." Blake says. Bane hums his approval.

" _Yes._ "

The butterflies have transformed into barbed wire, poking and prodding every inch of his being and making his entire body feel like it's twitching with electricity. He wasn't going to...?

"Whatever you want to say..." Blake whispers. "...I'm all ears."

Bane is quiet. It sounds like someone is speaking in the background. Then..."

"... _Impossible_."

Blake stiffens. The horror in his voice sends a terrible shiver down his spine.

"What?" He asks quickly. "What's wrong?"

_Click._

Blake has to keep himself from shouting his name. He pulls up the screen and hastily taps into a directory to check out the latest live feeds. The fighting has gotten brutal, but he knows it's nothing Bane hasn't seen before. Nothing that would make Bane react like that. Has Talia shown up again? Did Barsad get hurt? Was it the alligator man?

"Hey, Blake?" Tiya calls from down the hall. "You gonna keep watching with us...?" He pauses, then adds. "I mean, unless you don't want to..."

The hesitance in his voice pains him. He can't just ditch them and go running off to the protest. Not after what Reilly said. After what his boys saw him go through in the kitchen not an hour ago. What would they think of him if he went back on his word when they needed him most? Despite these guilty thoughts firing through his head, they all circle back to the same cold dread.

He's never heard Bane sound like _that_ before.

"Barbara." He grabs his coat and quickly zips it up to his collar, mind tumbling over possibilities as he figures out the fastest way to get to Bane. "I need your car."

"Uh, what?" She blinks. "Why?" Joel looks up from his magazine. Reilly picks up the remote and lowers the volume on the television. Blake holds up a hand in preparation for a flood of questions.

"It's an emergency. I just got a call."

She must hear the urgency in his voice, because she nudges the now-snoring Trevor out of her lap. The husky mix snuffles and blinks up at her curiously as she rises off the couch and gathers up her coat. "Okay? Sure. Where?"

Blake latches on his holster.

"Downtown."

He's checking his phone when he realizes. Blake slowly turns and walks back into room, where the boys watch him apprehensively. Except for Finn.

"Finn, listen..." Blake starts. "I'll be _right_ back-"

"Go ahead. I don't care." He says, not looking at him, staring hard at the television. "Have fun."

"A friend of mine in danger right now." He continues, feeling a surge of anger he _knows_ is inappropriate. "I wouldn't do this without good reason."

"I said I don't _care_."

Joel is visibly trembling, on the verge of another fit. Amir puts a comforting hand on the small boy's shoulder and shoots Finn a sharp look, mouthing a silent critique in an attempt to calm him down. Tiya pretends to be busy with something on his shirt. Jai and Emanuel stand in the doorway, holding snacks and glancing to one another. One by one he looks at all his boys. At Reilly's slowly shaking head.

Blake swallows back the guilt, like swallowing a hot coal, and turns and heads out.

"I'll be right back."

Downtown isn't far, but they have much more traffic to contend with than the typical weekday nine-to-five. Barbara is keenly aware of the less-occupied streets, though, something that makes him wonder if she was clued in on the police routes before she dropped by. Mere minutes later and they're as close as they can be without driving head-on into streets littered with broken glass.

Blake pushes up his scarf over his nose and mouth before opening the door. He has a pair of goggles in his coat pocket for when he and Barbara were originally going together, as well as his boot-knife.

"Who are you looking for?" Barbara asks, rolling down the window just a crack to let her voice out without letting in anything that could be airborne.

"Behnam." He answers, simply, checking his spare bullets.

"I'll go with you." Barbara says. She's already taking off her seatbelt. He puts a hand on the door. Every nerve in his body feels as jumped up as a car battery. Leaving the boys and Reilly in that state and having no idea what was happening to Bane...he can't have Barbara's safety on his mind, too. He won't be able to function.

"No, stay here." He says, then adds when she scowls. "Wait for me."

"What the hell, Blake?" He knows she must be frustrated if she's cursing. "Why does _everyone_ have to stay behind while you run off on some adventure?"

"Because I'm trying to _protect_ you all, damn it!" He snaps. She leans back in shock. "I want to make sure we're all going to get through this crazy year in one piece. There is some seriously fucked up shit going on in Gotham, Barbara. Beyond what you're seeing on television."

"No, I _know_ that-" She starts, indignant. "Let me help-"

"No, you don't. I don't _want_ you to. I don't want any of you to have to go through any of this." They both whirl around as something explodes in the distance. A plume of fire rises above one of the buildings. He doesn't have time to debate. He has to go _now_.

Without another word he runs into the downtown chaos.

Streets are blocked up. Broken objects make even running a treacherous action. While the clash of Gothamites and officers make it easy to move relatively undetected, he has to contend with clouds of tear gas and objects being flung in every direction. A red scarf. Another. It's far from the first he's seen in the crowd, but he knows his League members now. Even the ones without scarves move too efficiently and too casually in the face of danger. He follows them as best he can in-between the cluster of bodies.

Bane hinted he was at a library. It had to be the Gotham City Public. Blake would _never_ forgive himself if he risked his neck to help him only to not know where he'd nip away to for a few moments of peace.

The library stretches out before him, pale and regal, though its usual serene splendor is a little hard to focus on surrounded by what seem like entire clouds of gas, smoke or both. Someone is limp on the bottom of the stairs and being tended to by a crying peer. Another is being restrained on the ground at the top. Blake maneuvers his way to the back as quickly and quietly as possible as not to attract attention. He passes by a jet-black congregation -- a small group of protesters are dressed like Batman from head-to-toe.

He gets to the back of the library without incident. It's what he expects to see. An officer is guarding the back doors -- whether or not anyone's inside remains to be seen. He waits until her attention is turned elsewhere, then rushes up and pistol-whips her in the back of the head. Even a little rusty she falls to the ground like a sack of potatoes and doesn't get back up. He has to duck in through the (thankfully) open back door quickly before he's spotted, though the chaos has made it very unlikely anyone would look at him twice. A curse and a blessing.

Something is burning inside. A sour tang in the air that chokes his senses and makes panic slither cold down his spine. Bad memories tickle in his peripheral vision. Apartments on fire. Screaming parents. Ghosts. Bad memories from Old Gotham that have nipped at his heels ever since-

"No." He hisses out loud. "No, I'm _not_ running away."

Blake grinds nails into his palm, grounding himself with the pain, and pushes himself forward, even as his limbs are as stiff as ice and every step feels like slogging through a swamp. Minutes feel like years as he maneuvers through the backroom and makes his way past the entryfloor behind the front door. It's entirely abandoned. The smoke seems confined to one of the rooms above, manifesting as a haze of gray rising to the painted ceiling.

He drags the scarf away from his face once he hits cool air again, slumping against the wall to catch his breath in heaving gasps. Sweat clings his hair to his brow like glue. His legs won't stop shaking.

Glass shatters nearby. Something else hits the floor, heavy enough to make the ceiling above him quake. Like a leash on a dog's neck his gut starts tugging on him. _That's_ where he needs to be. Taking in a gulp of air he makes his way up the curving flight of stairs toward the noise, hand on his holster and heart slamming against his ribcage.

Keeping his head low he immediately scans the length of the upper levels when he arrives. It's just as warm and cozy as he remembers, all antique furniture and towering bookshelves nearly bursting with leatherbounds and paperbacks. Another _thud_ jolts him out of the brief tour of nostalgia. The fight is somewhere further down.

Weaving between knocked over chairs and crooked tables, he follows the increasing spread of violence like a trail of breadcrumbs. He rounds a bookshelf and has to duck right back in as a table longer than he is goes _flying_ through the air to crash somewhere out of sight. He's both thrilled and terrified. Bane was one of the few who had the strength to do _that_.

Blake ducks through a small gap. Crouches around a bookshelf and finally sees the fight head-on...and freezes.

Batman.

It has to be an imposter. Blake knows he's not. He knows Batman's work, even through the peppered glimpses he's left over the years, and he's here. Fighting Bane. Right under everyone's _nose_.

They're a whirlwind of violence, almost indistinguishable from the shadows. Judging by the fallen chairs and torn curtains they've _been_ fighting. Batman's cloak swirls around him like a stormcloud with every sidestep and weave. Bane is seemingly unaware of his surroundings or anything that isn't Batman, at one point slamming a fist into one of the side columns holding up the ceiling and sending chunks of marble scattering into the air.

The giddy patter of Blake's heart has transformed into a drum pounding in his ears. Something's seriously wrong.

There's none of his cool calculation present here. No methodical dance making the opponent stumble over their own feet or recoil in terror. He's frantic. Wild. Hunched like a bear and swiping at Batman with the same ferocity, he looks downright _crazy_. A _crash_ echoes through the room when they fall straight through a wooden table, snapping it clean in half.

He swears he hears Bane _snarl_ when he rises out of the clutter of rubble. Batman has gotten to his feet and put some distance between them, just enough to give him some breathing room, but it's barely a moment's respite. Bane grabs one of the towering wooden bookshelves next to him, heaving it forward with inhuman strength and sending it _crashing_ onto the spread of chairs and tables where Batman is standing.

Blake crushes his eyes shut and covers his ears, then looks back up. The dark knight has vanished. For one horrible moment Blake wonders if he's been crushed to death under hundreds of pounds of wood and books. Then he's falling from the ceiling -- he leapt _over_ the rubble -- with his cape flared like a pair of wings. Right onto Bane.

They hit the floor so hard Blake swears he bounces. They grapple, viciously, Bane on his back and twisting wrathfully to get back up. Both trying to pull one another down into a more vulnerable position. They both are on their feet again, likely realizing the closer they both are the worse their chances. Then Bane's stance falters and Blake goes completely numb.

' _No..._ '

The masked man shoves his opponent back and swings a wide haymaker, something that could knock a person's _jaw_ out of place, and follows up with another brutal arc. Even yards away he can hear the man's labored breath. Doubly so when Batman returns the sentiment so quick his eyes can barely follow. Bane's head snaps to one side. He wavers. He stumbles.

Bane, the man that had Gotham in the palm of his hand in a matter of weeks. Bane, who took on the alligator man as if he were just a garden-variety schmuck off the street and beat him into an unconscious heap with his fists alone. Bane, who suddenly hits the ground with a dull _thud_ and doesn't get back up again.

' _No...no, no, no, no no no no no-_ '

He knows Batman doesn't kill. Even though Bane told him he killed his teacher, _their_ teacher, he _knew_ there had to be more to the story. He has little reason to think it's a rule he'd break, even after his lengthy absence and proverbial dethroning. Not after the Joker and Scarecrow and Harley Quinn. But nothing about the situation makes sense. In fact, he's not entirely sure it's not leftover toxin playing tricks on him.

There's a vicious fury in every blow he lands, a wrath he couldn't have conjured up in his wildest fantasies, even as he appears to be favoring some old injury. Blake can't fully make it out through the thick armor. Then Bane lets out a terrible noise. A hoarse rattle like he's in _agony._

As if possessed Blake can distantly feel himself rising to his feet and wrapping shaking fingers around his pistol. Batman leans down and grabs Bane by the collar.

' _No!_ '

Bane's panting, _wheezing_ , trying to piece his torn mask back together with fumbling hands. Batman slaps them away he's a disobedient child and strikes him in the face. Once. _Twice_. The clang of metal on metal rings. He raises his fist again..then freezes at the gunshot fired into the air.

He rises to his feet and turns to face Blake, standing a few feet away and pointing his pistol directly at him.

" _Get away from him._ "

It's hard to know where to focus first. Bruce Wayne, the _Batman_ , is standing not five feet away from him. He's everything he's ever imagined and even more so. He seems part of the shadows, an ink blot reluctantly seeping out into the light. The only hint to Bane still living is the faint wheeze of his breath. He can just make out the roar of the riots outside the stone walls. This could go right, wrong or _very_ wrong...depending on how he played his part.

"Stand down, officer." Even the light seeping in from outside doesn't seem to illuminate him, only casting him further into a black silhouette. "Just because he's down doesn't mean he's out."

Blake thinks quickly. Bruce Wayne still remembers him from their little meeting back at his estate. When he'd tried to get him to come out of hiding. Maybe he could use this to his advantage. Buy Bane enough time to get his mask back in order and get the _hell_ out of here.

"I'm taking him in." He lowers his gun, just barely. "You've done enough. Though, I have to say, I didn't think you'd show up again."

"Disappearing was low on my to-do list." Blake can just make out the man's eyes through the cowl -- a cold, suspicious blue. "Where's back-up?"

"On its way."

"Then I'll wait."

He uses every last ounce of deception he's got in his arsenal, steeling his face as if the guy has personally insulted him. "You think I can't do my job?" Blake snorts. "I may not have your fancy gadgets, but I've done my fair share of hauling bad guys in."

"I think you underestimate who's behind you." Batman says with an accompanying nod toward the masked man. Blake makes a show of glancing over his shoulder at Bane, both to keep up his charade and to check on him.

His back is propped against the upturned desk. His eyes are glassy and barely open, head lolling on his chest like he's nodding off. What the hell was going on? He knows he wore the mask for pain, but he'd never gotten anything more specific than that. How bad was the pain? From where? He may have had time to recover, but after what Barsad told him, three and a half weeks couldn't have been enough.

' _Damn you, Bane_.' He thinks frantically. ' _Why didn't you open up to me more...? What's happening to you?_ '

"You said you needed the Batman." The man cuts into his racing thoughts with an ironic smile. "Well...here I am."

"Where...have you been all this time?" Blake continues, stalling and confused and exhilarated and curious and so many other emotions he desperately tries to organize like a mental filebox. He's so _different_ from what he remembers back at the Wayne Estate. The man had been haggard and thin, clearly as worn physically as he was mentally. Standing before him...he's never looked better.

"Let's just say I'm not going back." The soft _tip-tap_ of buttons. Batman is looking at something in his hand.

"Yeah? Wouldn't blame you if you did." Blake says, without the faintest trace of irony. Bruce glances up at him, then back down. "Gotham must be quite a sight." 

"Yes, it is. Fire littering the streets. Rubble. Sometimes bodies. Bane even broke into one of my armories while I was gone. Not what I would consider the ideal welcome home gift." Batman says. Their conversation could almost be confused for smalltalk at a diner. "John Robin Blake, is it?"

"Yeah...?"

"Tell me...how are you going to take Bane in when you left the force over four months ago?"

 _Fuck_.

Batman slowly pockets the device. Blake raises his gun and cocks it. He doesn't want to shoot the man. In fact, it's right up there with 'swallow a handful of thumbtacks' and 'swim naked into a river full of alligators' on the list of things he really, _really_ doesn't want to do. So he's going to tell the truth and pray to whatever god feels like listening that it'll be enough.

"Listen...the situation isn't what it seems to be." He starts. "He's _not_ who you're after."

"...Who?"

"Bane."

That's when Batman's cool cracks. His eyes narrow like he's grown a third leg. Blake tries to control his trembling hands as he scrutinizes him from head to toe.

"Sorry, you'll have to repeat that." Batman says, deceptively smooth even as a dark note of distrust enters his voice. "My hearing's not what it used to be."

"Trust me, he's the least of your problems right now."

"...You support Bane's regime."

"No, that's _not_ what I'm saying-"

Blake drops to his feet as the man flings something. It whizzes past his ear and leaves a brutal sting in its wake. He turns and looks at the silver throwing star embedded in the wall a few feet behind him. The shape of a bat.

"So power-hungry you'd support a terrorist." Batman is pulling out another, then _another_ , spread between his fingers like playing cards. "Who put you up to it? Foley?"

' _Even he's not a fan of the guy_.' Blake thinks with a sick lurch of humor. Blood trickles from the thin cut on his cheek to drip off his chin. ' _Come on, Bruce, we've got **way** more in common than you think_.'

"Just listen to me-"

 _Thunk._ Another one right above his head.

"Stand _down_ , John Blake." Batman warns. "This won't end well for you the third time."

When the hell was Batman so _stubborn_? He's starting to panic -- he can't hear Bane anymore, not even a cough. What was in his mask? Was that his lifeline all along? Was he _dying_? He risks a look over his shoulder...and earns a solid right hook across the jaw for his trouble. Blake retaliates with one of his own, earning a satisfying smack right beneath the man's cowl.

The small victory is short-lived when Batman kicks him right in the stomach and sends him skidding across the floor.

Blake pushes both hands by his head and flips to his feet, only for the lights to flick off and send black falling over him like a curtain. The outside light can't break through the boarded windows above, not quite -- it manifests in a glowing outline, well away from where it could matter. He listens intently in the sudden still. The air moves and in a flash he's on the ground again, clutching his ribcage and gasping for breath.

"Things have changed more than I thought." Batman grates from somewhere to his right. He can't even hear his footsteps. "I didn't think you, of _all_ people..."

"No, just fucking listen to me..." Blake wheezes. "Jonathan Crane is on the loose and there's a madwoman out to destroy-" He gasps as a steeltoed boot goes right into his stomach, only to vanish as soon as it came.

"Stay _down._ "

Bane had treated the dark like water. A necessary and dangerous element that could be worked with if its limits were respected. So Blake doesn't bother to quiet his heaving, hacking breaths. Lets himself be heard as he gets to his feet and shifts into a fighting stance. Batman already knows where he is, after all. What he _doesn't_ know is what he'd learned over the months.

Blake suddenly drops onto his hands. Batman's fist glides over his head, rustles his hair, and retracts like it was never there. He dances back up and curls his fists in front of his face. The man was covered in some sort of high-tech armor. Already leagues ahead of anything he could do. He had to find something to help him catch up.

His heel hits something heavy. Something rolls with a metallic clatter. He gets an idea.

The darkness moves. A physical thickness that shifts around him, as subtle as a breath. Batman is behind him, rising above him, bringing his bladed arm down...only to strike the pole Blake has stretched between both hands. The reverberation makes his entire body shake and it's only his solid stance that keeps him standing.

The shock wears off quick for both of them. Batman leans back, clearly to assess the new weapon, and Blake swings the bar like a staff, though it's heavy enough to potentially overbalance his weight. Batman grapples it with both hands in an attempt to wrench it from him. Blake twists it clockwise, right out of his grasp, and strikes him right across the jaw with one end. Then he swings again, missing by inches judging by the sharp _scrape_ of metal on metal.

Batman strikes again, a swift swipe from the right. Blake twists the pole vertically and blocks. Then he blocks again. Staving off each blow, one-by-one, letting the darkness guide his hand as carefully as any teacher. To his astonishment, the dark knight actually pauses somewhere in the black. Reconciling. Studying. Blake shifts his stance, every nerve in his body on fire...and waiting.

The soft _click-clack_ of boots cuts through their panting breaths with the efficiency of a knife. Then...

"Enough, Bruce."

Blake goes rigid. He knows that voice.

The lights flicker back on and Selina Kyle is standing between them like she's been there the whole time. She's now covered from top-to-bottom in a skin-tight black leather suit with her hair tumbling brown down her back. The only hint of color are the serrated silver stilettos growing from her heels. A quick look at the ornament on her head, curved like a pair of ears, and he has to hold back a hysterical laugh. The Cat.

"Selina...?" Batman's voice goes hoarse with emotion. "How did you...?"

"Easy." She looks between them calmly, gaze lingering temporarily on Bane, before leaning a hand on her hip and flicking her hair over her shoulder. "I just followed the racket."

"Let me guess." Batman drones, that astonished rasp replaced by something a little more bitter. "There's something in it for you."

"From the looks of it there's something in it for _all_ of us." She drawls back. "You've netted quite the catch."

"Something for all of us?" Batman snaps. "I find that hard to believe. _Last_ time I followed your advice I ended up-"

"Cut the crap. I did what I had to do."

"You told me what he did to you. _Why_ stand between him and a cell now?"

Blake stands there, probably looking incredibly stupid still holding up his pole and catching his breath. What Bane...did? What _did_ he do? His vision starts to swim uncertainly.

"I prefer to tie up loose ends." Selina says with another glance over at the masked man still propped against the wall. The mixture of hate and caution on her face makes it clear she's not here for irony's sake. Like fumbling hands on a broken puzzle his brain starts pulling and sticking the pieces together.

There's history between them. That much is now sure. They also can't sit here and argue until the sun sets. He can still hear chaos raging outside, but there are _far_ more sirens than there were a few minutes ago. He turns again to Bane -- there's a sallow look to his skin and he doesn't like the way he's twitching. What the hell is happening to him? It reminds Blake of withdrawals. Something like when he was attempting to cut back on nicotine but ten times worse with a heaping dose of what-the- _fuck_.

"Don't move." He hears Batman say when he inches to the side, a desperate animal need to get closer and protect him, _somehow_. The man attempts to walk over, then, only for Selina to step forward and physically bar his way. She looks over her shoulder at him.

"Hurry up." She snaps.

He'll ask questions later. Blake turns and looks helplessly at the tangle of silver wire sticking out at odd angles. It's hard to know where to even start. With a few deep breaths he forces himself to relax, thinking back to the times they lay together, how he studied every detail as carefully as a map. He uses it as a reverse method, matching each wire to the imprints in his mind.

The thought he could die here, some complication from his past injuries or some withdrawal or some _fucking_ thing makes his chest tighten so painfully it's hard to breathe.

He sets the pole down and reaches forward to cradle Bane's face. Blake has to tweak and turn the thick cords about, figuring out how they move, and he can feel his heart quicken at the shrieking wail of a nearby siren. A soft _hiss_ rewards him when he slides the first wire into a small, dark slot. Leaning closer he feels even more lightheaded and he wonders, briefly, if the mask has some sort of drug inside.

He twists and pushes in a second. Another _hiss_.

"I took down Bane." Batman says. He can hear him pulling out more of those bat-shaped throwing stars. A murderous shuffle. "Both of you won't be a problem."

A scoff. "Please. Judging by how this guy nearly knocked your cowl clean off..." She jerks her head in Blake's direction. "...I'd say you're not giving either of us enough credit."

" _Selina._ "

Another wire connects. Bane's eyelids flicker. Barely. Blake's heart clutches white-hot with hope and fear.

"Batman...?"

Blake's head whips up. Gordon is standing in the doorway he came from.

No, _no_. Why the hell was he here? Why wasn't he somewhere else? Somewhere _safe?_ He flashes back to the masked man's raging violence mere minutes ago, the downright bestial lust to kill, and wonders if Bane _should_ wake. Selina is watching them both, eyeing Bane like someone would eye a wild animal, and Batman's expression suggests he's not far behind. The Commissioner doesn't stand a chance.

"... _John?_ " Gordon gasps, breathlessly, eyes widening. "What are you _doing_ here?" He looks to Bane again, much more furiously, and Blake connects the dots. He probably thought he was taken hostage again. He'd be touched if he weren't so pissed.

"Good question." Blake's voice is tight. "I could ask _you_ the same thing."

"Don't give me that. I gave _you_ the benefit of the doubt. I knew you'd have a good reason to keep what you found to yourself..." He lets out a hard sigh. "At least, I thought I knew... _Blake_." Gordon suddenly says, sharp. "You need to leave. Right now."

"I don't _need_ to do a damn thing. Why didn't you take my advice?" He knows he must be sounding hilariously vague to Selina and Bruce just inches away, but he'd _tried_ to warn him all those weeks back. Suggest as best he could without outing himself that he had a mark on his head that only grew bigger by the day. He doesn't want Barbara to lose her grandfather.

"I thought it was what Gotham needed. I'm going to fix it now." Gordon grits between his teeth. Only now does he seem to register Selina. "By taking...who's this?" Gordon asks Batman. "She a friend of yours?"

"You could say that." Batman responds, dryly. Selina smirks.

The sound of hasty footsteps echoes somewhere down the hall. Everyone turns.

"Well, well, _well_. Look what we have here."

Like a bad dream Foley appears next to the Commissioner, grinning like he's stumbled upon all his vacation time at once. He's dressed in his usual beige coat, holding a pistol in one hand and a two-way in the other, but there's nobody accompanying him. Likely watching the entrances to catch flankers. If they're not arresting protesters, that is.

"This is turning into a shitshow." Selina mutters under her breath, reaching up to flick her ears back down over her eyes. They appear to be goggles of some sort, glowing a faint, almost imperceptible blue.

"I _knew_ you were bad news, hothead." Foley gloats. "What is everyone going to think when-"

The Deputy only just then registers Batman. He goes from a shit-eating smirk to something far more slack-jawed. His eyes flick to Selina (up and down, he notes with a gross twist of his stomach). Then to Bane. Then to him. Then to Batman. Then to Bane. Rapidfire he looks between all of them, trying to put the pieces together and clearly coming up short.

"What the... _hell_ is this..." He whispers. Gordon holds up a hand for his silence.

"It's been a while, Batman." He says, back to his usual authority. "Under better circumstances I would catch up with you, but I've got someone that needs apprehending. Your help would be much appreciated."

Bane shifts where he sits, hardly more than a twitch, but it's enough to make everyone go dead silent. Gordon's hands tremble on his pistol and Foley outright _aims_ at him. Batman raises his throwing stars in preparation. Even Blake feels himself steeling for the worst.

Selina has seen an opportunity in the distraction, it seems, because when Blake turns back around she's slipped away into the shadows. Batman's eyes are flared in anger, but he doesn't move, looking beyond them somewhere in the shadows. Whatever he did to the mask must be working by now. Blake turns to Bane to check and see...

Shots ring through the room. His leg is suddenly on _fire_ , an agony that has him gasping with no air and stumbling to the ground and barely catching himself on his hands. Gordon screams Foley's name. The scuffling of shoes scrape on the marble floor.

"Hold your fire! Hold your _fire!_ " He's holding out his gun still, the other arm twisting Foley's aim down to the floor. "What the hell are you thinking?!"

"No killing. He's barely armed!" Batman yells, voice coarse with anger. He's standing in front of Blake now, something he'd view as ironic if he could think past the haze of pain.

"He's still _armed_ and with the enemy-"

"I said hold your _goddamn_ fire-"

"He's not your protege anymore, Gordon!" Foley attempts to wrench away, cold metal glinting maliciously in the poor light. "Let it _go!_ "

Blake looks down at the blood darkening his jeans and starting to dribble onto the floor. He tries to get to his feet, then seizes as pain shoots up his entire right side. Batman has taken a step forward, voice raised, but his words clutter together in the growing cacophony. More people have entered through the doorway. Sirens wail just outside the walls. They've been found.

Everything starts to blur. Shadows are flanking the destroyed room. Batman is towering over him, not even a few feet away, and for a moment he looks less like a man and more like a monster. Foley had it out for him since the beginning. Gordon's career had been hanging on a thread ever since Bane outed him with his own letter. Bane, who was wanted...and starting to wake up. Selina Kyle was wanted. Hell, Batman has _been_ wanted. Everyone in this room was just a little fucked.

Whatever happened in the next five minutes...he was either very fucked or _extremely_ fucked.

Rage, hot and ugly, flares in his chest and turns everything red.

"... _Screw_ this."

Blake cocks his pistol, aims at his former boss and fires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I checked when I first posted the fic and starting picking up where I left off...I've been uploading for over eight _months_.
> 
> Time fucking _flies_.


	46. When Kindness Is Madness

_It's cold, but it's home._

_He swims with the grace of a fish. Perhaps a shark, with his appetite. He's been swimming for hours. The city has gone on lockdown, which means the areas he normally frequented were being visited more often by unwelcome faces -- he has to swim deeper and further, where the light can barely reach, and hold his breath for longer periods of time. Although he has a dozen escape routes tucked away at any given time, it's nervewracking trying to navigate Gotham with the increased scrutiny._

_It's home, but barely._

_A body drifts in the water like a hunk of trash. Gotham had quite a few of those, especially closer to the docks near The Bowery and The Narrows. Judging by the sallow skin it's a little old, but it would have to do. He'd rather not become accustomed to the taste of human flesh, but he'd also rather not starve._

_He wants to visit them. Let them know he's alive, after all he's been through, but all he can think about at the moment is food. Perhaps later, when his sanity has returned to him. Perhaps later, once he's found his quarry and he doesn't also have to worry about being blown to bits by a bomb in his shoulder as he does being discovered._

_Until then..._

\--

Click.

" _...an urgent message by the Gotham City Police Department. Stay in your homes today. If you see any suspicious behavior or any sight of the masked vigilante, please contact the authorities as soon as possible. Fourteen deaths have been reported..._ "

Click.

" _...was killed from a shot to the head and a shot to the chest. He died of his injuries in the ambulance at 3:32 p.m. on the way to the hospital. Commissioner Gordon has since been taken into custody and Director Amanda Waller is expected to speak on this matter tomorrow after..._ "

Click.

" _...are rumors the caped crusader, Batman, has been sighted near the Gotham City Public Library. While he was considered responsible for the death of Harvey Dent eight years ago, new information has surfaced upon the reveal of Commissioner Gordon's letter and, subsequently, apparent involvement. Some say the person in question is merely a copycat. Many attended the recent protest dressed in a similar fashion. Others, however, are claiming..._ "

Click. Click. Click.

Talia al Ghul stretches her legs, then leans back in her chair as she reviews the news from the past few days.

She and Bane may have gone their separate ways, but the protest he led has been nothing short of _remarkable_. Like the aftermath of a wildfire it's still crackling throughout Gotham's rotten foundation, _still_ threatening to explode and consume the city whole once more. Even as the Gotham City Police Department has made countless arrests and a plethora of deaths in their ranks have shaken all sides of the equation, she can taste an omnipresent threat on the wind.

" _Breaking news has come straight from the Gotham City Police Department. John Robin Blake, former patrol officer, is wanted in suspicion of accomplice to manslaughter. He is thirty-two years old, black hair and brown eyes-_ "

Talia stops and stares at that deceptively trustworthy face. She studies the way his open smile clashes with hard eyes in a video with what appears to be his co-workers -- he's clad in the Department's dark uniform with a friendly arm thrown over Commissioner Gordon's shoulders, laughing in some show of embarrassment as his photo is taken.

The crocodile man was having difficulty locating him -- it didn't help that John Blake didn't seem to have any immediate family she could use against him. No parents, no grandparents, no siblings. She would have to look deeper into his records for relatives or friends that were close to him, should the beast still turn up short.

Talia was patient, but she had her limits. She knew there was something going on between him and Bane... and she would find out.

It would be reasonable to assume the sewer creature was attempting to stall for time (much like how Pavel had tried and failed), but no, it continued to report to her day-after-day. Hearing it speak for the first time had been a _touch_ jarring, yes, but she had long since come to terms with Gotham's particular brand of evil. An alligator-man hybrid was a fitting mascot, if she were being honest. As ugly on the inside as it was on the outside.

The photo fades and is replaced with a video. It's a brief clip of John Blake talking to Deputy Commissioner Foley at the steps of the city hall -- he has his hands folded politely behind him, listening intently even as he shifts from side-to-side in barely concealed impatience. His eyes have a characteristic curve, something that, coupled with his laugh, makes him look younger than his years.

Intrusive thoughts creep like venom through her veins. Images of Bane running his fingers through the man's dark hair, sliding a thumb along his cheekbones and mapping out details where his mouth could not. Pressing onto him and into him when the lust is too terrible to bear...

Talia grips the remote so hard it cracks. A swift knock on the door cuts through her thoughts.

"Enter."

Johnathan Crane limps in. Weeks after the fact and the psychologist _still_ treats his injuries as if he's about to fall over and breathe his last at any moment. Blake had given him a beating during their encounter at The Narrows, leaving a nasty gash across his nose, a scattering of bruises and a cracked rib in his wake. It was impressive, yes...and he _should_ have recovered decently enough by now.

A soft man from a soft paradise, despite his above-average intelligence, and Talia regards him with the same attention she would give dirt under her nail as he approaches her.

"I see you've finally decorated." He sniffs, looking at the humble home she's stitched together from little. With most of her funds compromised and her time occupied with either resting or commanding her small employ, it was a rare moment when she was able to add to her decor. The old wood still smells of the salty breeze and the heater doesn't reach the kitchen, but the addition of a few pink blankets from a local vendor have done wonders for adding charm.

"Thank you." She replies, silkily, and enjoys the flutter of a vein in his stiff jaw -- no matter where she found herself, she held herself with the grace of a queen and he hated every moment of it. "To what do I owe this visit?"

"I'm having a...somewhat difficult time acquiring more volunteers for my toxin." Crane begins, voice carefully bland. "It seems Bane's Reck...the recent _protests_ have caused many to be unimpressed with my rates. I am being turned down left and right." He snorts. "Though they _are_ competitive for their stock."

She doesn't miss his hesitance to speak Bane's name in her presence. Their separation has been a stain on her soul, an unavoidable mark that showed itself in every little daily action. Sleep, which normally came to her with the obedience a dog would its master, has eluded her in favor of intermittent nightmares and a few dances with insomnia.

She idly touches her small yet growing stomach. Her little one was certainly not helping.

"Then take what people you _do_ have and get them to work. I doubt you're unfamiliar with the process of ordering people around." She responds curtly.

"Oh, that is _far_ from a problem." He reassures her, a touch nasty. "It's just that they are slobbering insane by this point."

"We can fill in the gaps elsewhere." She reaches up and takes her hair down. "I am less interested in your endless fine tuning and more in how we will spread your work where it matters."

" _How?_ " Crane presses. "You have been out of action for quite some time, now. Appearing out of nowhere with requests for... _equipment_ would look suspicious. We can't afford any additional scrutiny. Not after The Narrows."

"That all depends on the tale I spin them." She threads fingers through her deep brown waves and works out a rare knot. "Most on the Wayne Board remember me fondly, even as they fight against obscurity in light of their failing stocks. I can curry a few favors from people I know."

Lucius Fox has had no choice but to take over for her in light of her 'sick leave'. She had long since determined he and Bruce Wayne had a deeper relationship outside of work and it would be tempting to... _encourage_ the scientist to hand over his supplies in exchange for keeping his neck. On the other hand, he didn't seem like the type to suffer quietly.

If Bane were still working with her she would have likely requested he give the man another visit. With Bruce Wayne firmly out of the picture it would have been _all_ too easy for him to play up the part of the terrifying overlord 'checking in' on one of his favorite scientists. Lucius could then claim his life had been threatened and be feasibly let off the hook, again, and driven into Talia's sympathetic arms. It would be a perfect plan...

...except Bane is _not_ with her.

Bane had kept her in a cell for many days. Where nobody could find her. He had always been a secret element in her false life -- it wouldn't have been easy to explain him, even to the more militant members of the board (of which there were _very_ few). Despite this, he had taken care to have Barsad (originally posing as one of her close bodyguards) inform the Wayne Board of her 'illness'. He had likely done so in the hopes she would get better, in his eyes, during her keep.

Then Rubio and his defectors risked their lives to break her out and left a smoking hole smack dab in the middle of the city. Even though she had no intention of leaving Gotham without reducing it to a memory, she appreciated Bane's little gesture of confidence -- it would have been better for him if he had just told the Wayne Board she was dead.

The reactor was out of her hands, but witnessing the chaos over the days revealed an upside to their loss. Crane's toxin was originally meant to be the trail of breadcrumbs leading Gotham toward its ruin, but every new day has pulled her closer to her father's original plan over eight years ago. Instead of detonating a 400 megaton bomb, she would instead pull Gotham apart from the inside-out one person at a time.

The psychologist's arms are tightly crossed and he's watching her silently roam through her thoughts with an expression that suggests he'd rather be elsewhere.

That Bane hadn't killed Crane, despite his _utter_ contempt for the man, had also worked out in her favor. It was rather romantic, witnessing the unexpected results of his optimism and malevolence. It was one of many things she loved about him.

"What equipment do you need?" She says when he looks like he's about to say something he'll regret.

"As much as you can get me. Large fans for dispersal. Tanks for storage. Darts. Knives. Needles. My formula is plenty efficient, yes, but to create enough to cover most of the city..." He slides fingers through his greasy blonde hair. She can see why he's called 'The Scarecrow', even as it's likely not the source of the title. "I was still restricted to neighborhoods with close quarters. Even _half_ the city would be..."

"Which formula?" She interrupts, eyes narrowing. "I seem to have underestimated how many variations you would create on this serum of yours." It's the right question, for more reasons than one. His irritable demeanor becomes much smoother in light of his passion.

"Yes, well. I _actually_ wanted to come by to share with you my third masterpiece. The trauma toxin has had a few side-effects, but nothing that can't be dealt with. Dry throat, minor to severe nausea, insomnia, the like. I was _attempting_ to figure out how to make it more resistant to extreme heat and smoke. Although the psychological sores remain, these elements reduce its effectiveness significantly." His eyes flash with malice. "In-between my research, however, I ended up designing something far more... _virulent_."

Talia listens to his lead-in with her cheek resting on one fist. She's not fond of the man herself, but she can see why her father hired him. He could turn people against one another, against _themselves_ , without laying a single finger on them. It was a talent the League Of Shadows cherished since its creation hundreds of years ago. Why _wouldn't_ one of the most infamous and shadowy organizations in human history prize such a subtle influence?

The woes of the world eating _themselves_ alive like a snake its tail...and Gotham was ever the exemplary ouroboros.

"It's a toxin that draws upon emotions thought to be incorruptible. Pure, even." He says, sly as a weasel. "Protectiveness. Platonic love. Adoration and respect and _timeless_ devotion. A love toxin, some could call it."

Talia, in spite of herself, leans forward attentively.

"My fear toxin compounded on people's deepest pathological scars. The original." He continues, almost quivering with eagerness. "My trauma toxin would then dip fingers into their agony, where grief and loneliness took center stage. This toxin, however, transforms tenderness into _obsession_. Lovers will hunt each other in an endless game of cat and mouse. Families will rip each other apart in the name of love. Entire artistic movements and fields of psychology have been devoted to the concept of love, you see...and my work will expose a side few thought possible."

' _It's not so impossible, really._ ' Talia thinks as the man gloats. ' _Then again, few have ever prepared for me._ '

Crane didn't need to tell her of _his_ eventual plan to control the city. It was written all over him from the moment they met -- his pompous disdain for the working classes, his flaccid ideas as to what constituted _true_ justice, his entitlement. He was the _very_ person Talia wanted to see eliminated from the face of the earth. So she harbored no delusions about his loyalty.

They would work together...for now.

"Crane."

He's excused himself, eager to get back to work. He pauses and turns just as he reaches the door, barely schooling the irritation in his face to something more polite.

"Are you able to tweak the effects of your toxin to be purely devoted?" She asks. "Rather than self-destructive."

The psychologist looks surprised at her question. Then suspicious. Then unsure.

"I thought you weren't interested in further fine tuning."

"Opinions change in light of new knowledge. Answer my question." 

"Its effects are...powerful." He begins, tightly, making it clear it's not what he wants to say. "But further changes are not beyond me. Depending on the dosage more subtle reactions can occur, though this also depends, unfortunately, on the individual's unique qualities. Whether or not they are mentally ill, and of what sort, or whether or not they are taking any medication. Their age, alcohol, Gotham's _damned_ pollution problem..."

He adjusts his glasses when she doesn't add anything further.

"Might I know your reasoning...Ms. al Ghul?"

"Just curious." She says with a smile, turning back to the television and continuing to scan the channels.

Perhaps later she would tell him she plans to use it on Bane before her child was born. Not before, however, she saw the side-effects for herself.

She makes the necessary arrangements to secure the equipment Crane needs, though they will need a little time with their limited resources. Her defectors in the League, though fewer in number after their encounter with Bane and the destruction of the storm drains, were in dire need of distracting work. It wouldn't do to have them questioning her authority, or their worth, during idle moments.

She would contact Lucius Fox and make nice to soothe over her reappearance, as well as tap into her (small, yet not negligible) back-up funds. Until then...

Talia takes a long bath, then indulges in a brief yet calming walk around the seaside before making her way down the thin, winding path that leads to one of the leftover shacks in the corner of her barely-town. Crane has since conducted his research in its basement, even though he claims it worse than his abode in The Narrows.

Together they sit in front of a glass box and watch as their volunteer succumbs to the new 'love toxin', held firm by the chains on their wrists and ankles. A young man, a fisher who originally worked one of the nearby docks before joining her makeshift company, loses his mind in a matter of minutes. At first he sits and watches them. Even makes light conversation. Then he begins to tear up at some memory in the middle of talking about the latest football game.

Then he's sobbing and curling on the ground as if he's heartbroken in a display so raw it makes Crane wrinkle his nose.

Then, just as quickly and without warning, he sits up and determines Talia to be the lost love of his life.

"Well." Crane chuckles over his clipboard. "That's a good sign."

"Nothing I haven't already seen before..." She says with an idle bob of her foot. "...but, yes."

Even losing most of his medical equipment back in The Narrows Crane is remarkably adept at analyzing physical cues and assessing just how effective his work is. He prefers physical notes to digital, writing with a speed that almost seems unnatural. A sideways glance at his notes before he tucks them in his coat pocket yields specific details.

' _...fast reaction...tremors suggest instability...pupils are sensitive to light...touch is discouraged...check for pulse..._ '

In a fit of inspiration Crane bursts from his chair and temporarily leaves the little room to dig through his filebox in his office. Talia takes the spare moment to inch the door to the glass box open, lean into the narrow space and take in a deep breath. She shuts it before the man attempts to reach out to her.

Crane is confused when he walks back in and she tells him she's taking her leave early, but he doesn't stop her. Indeed, he seems relieved to have her gone.

Bane had always been in her life. One of her earliest childhood memories was seeing him knitting a red scarf in the corner of her mother's cell, a habit that soon grew as beloved for them both as their company was to each other. From the pit to the League to countries across the world he was ever at her back. Protecting her. Fighting for her. It was _wrong_ not having him close.

Like a phantom limb she can _feel_ him near, ever her trustworthy shadow, yet every time she instinctively turns to meet his eyes, leans back to feel his hand beside hers...

Her confidant, her dearest friend, is just no longer _there_.

His kindness had become a madness.

It's more than a fast reaction. Talia can already feel madness starting to surround her head like the tickle of an old feather pillow. She leaves the shack behind and moves into the warm breeze. Her return back down the thin, winding path and over the intermittent puddles left by spring is less a walk and more a journey through the deepest recesses of her psyche.

There aren't many people who linger in this bare, decrepit hodgepodge of shacks and huts, but it's more than that which turns her gaze.

Ra's strolls along the beach before her. She can tell by his unique facial hair and the way he holds himself, like the world belongs to him and he's gracing it with his mere presence alone. She stares until he walks into the ocean and he disappears under the foam. Talia is not shaken by these memory ghosts. That is, until she glimpses Bane halfway to her home.

Bane is leaning against an old car by the road, hands folded in front of him as he watches the ocean's steady churn. He wears a simple shirt over a pair of denim jeans and rugged brown boots. No gloves. No sheepskin or leather coat. Coupled with the fact he's without his mask, he would almost look ordinary if not for the scars on his face. The old wounds that move through his lips and across his nose in fleshy trenches would be seen as vulgar, perhaps nightmarish, to a more mundane eye. He had always been beautiful to her.

The scars on Bane's face stretch wide as he smiles. An elderly man passes her by on his cane, pausing to give her a strange look when she calls out Bane's name. She doesn't recognize him, so he must be real.

It's better and far worse than a high. It's harder to walk on her heeled shoes, so she slips them off and hooks them both under a finger before hopping onto the bumpy stone ledge separating the road from the stretch of ocean. 

Like a child she spreads out her arms to maintain her balance, past the vision of Bane that fades like the dawn and all the way down to her small, cold little shelter. Then she drops her shoes to fumble through her purse, filled with a thousand keys, all flowing out to clatter into a growing pile onto the ground. Bit by bit, reality unravels.

Then she stumbles inside, then she feels her way past her furniture, then she hits her knee on the corner of her bed and sinks clumsily into the blankets and presses her face into the pillow and finally...dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to take some extra time with these next chapters because of all the interlocking plot points, references to the film and new directions the story is going in. I'm glad I did, because these would have been _much_ sloppier otherwise. I had to constantly check back with Batman Wikis because I kept forgetting major details that probably would've shattered immersion like a cheap vase.
> 
> Anyway, let's spend a little time with the villains!


	47. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for brief mentions of sexual assault.

Dust. Heat. Voices. A pale sky that stretches on forever in a blue blanket. Curiosity and indifference leer down at her in a flurry of changing faces that flicker dreamlike in the heat as she moves through the crowd. Sometimes she stops and stares into open doors and peers into windows, even though she knows she must hurry. It's a fascination that consumes her wholly, these glimpses into entirely different worlds. Even amidst the one she's already found herself in.

"What do you want, boy?"

The guards are familiar and completely alien at once. She doesn't know them, but she knows their savagery as she would know her own heartbeat.

The breeze tickles her cropped hair when she pulls down her shawl.

"My name is Talia al Ghul."

At first they had laughed at her. Even told her she could be killed for making a joke like that. Something in her eyes communicated otherwise, however, because the humor drained from their faces to be replaced with reliable uncertainty. When she presents to them a slip of parchment, irrefutable in its proof, they come to a quicker decision.

Amused, yet doubtful, they take her to him. Like a valued resource she is exchanged between hands, in places too strange for words, eventually ending up between a man and a woman. The little girl barely reaches their elbows in her meager height as they move throughout the halls of an endless stone house.

Ra's is claimed by many to be a demon walking the earth. Sitting before her in an old wooden chair, clad in practical garb, he hardly looks more than a man.

"Why have you been brought to me, child?"

She reaches into her pocket -- the guards surrounding him lift their guns in preparation -- and holds out a ring in the palm of her hand. It's a delicate silver band with a tiger's eye in the center, the swirling patterns as warm and moody as a sunset.

"I gave this to my late wife..." Although she was meeting him for the first time, she could already tell Ra's was not a man who lost his composure frequently. "... _where did you get this?_ "

\--

Her mother named her Talia. Before she was killed.

She wasn't allowed to use her name in the pit. Not when her mother had been the only female prisoner and, after her untimely demise, passed the burden exclusively to her. Her twin sister had died just a few days after being born -- Mari would have been the name she'd have to hide -- and her death had been both a blessing and a curse. A permanent scar dragging across Lael's very soul.

'Talia' had been whispered to her in secret -- a trade of trust, a trade of love -- and 'child' was what was spoken aloud whenever they had to visit the doctor or move beyond their designated spaces. Her mother had a voice like no other. Proud and strong, whether she gave voice to her fleeting thoughts or sang gentle songs to soothe her to sleep.

_The tiger's eye ponders why_

_A dance made in umber_

_Little girl, let your dress swirl_

_Forever as you wonder_

_Don't be torn usunder, my pet_

_And pulled under_

Lael had been the daughter of a warlord. A man with money and influence that spanned for many miles, whose name alone was enough to change the depth of the room like the closed heat from an incoming storm. It was, perhaps, his comfortable upbringing that influenced his passionate daughter to take her lover's place in the pit. Willing to sacrifice not just her riches, but her very freedom, just to see him safe and happy.

Her mother had been a fool, and Talia missed her terribly.

'Tal' was what Behnam had insisted she be called once she was left her in his care. It was a butchered compromise, but a compromise she had to make, lest she be torn apart from the inside out and left for the guards to collect come morning. Only one prisoner found out she was a girl, only a few days after her entire world changed, and he didn't last the night.

The doctor who attempted to save the man's life was later threatened with the same if he breathed a word.

Behnam wasn't like the other prisoners, and yet, he was. He was violent. Stoic. Strange. Not everyone respected him, but that didn't matter in the pit. They _feared_ him and that had been enough for mother to trust him with the most important part of her life.

Talia had always marveled, in a way only a child could, at how he seemed to fear _her_.

Mother told her he was in the pit since he was a child. Much like her. That made him a kindred spirit, someone who _should_ understand her intrinsically, but during their more formative moments Talia only seemed to bewilder him at every point and turn. His dark eyes, a deep gray that would often swell into a paranoid black, never failed to follow her. Wary, yet fascinated, like one would stare at a new insect or glittering thing nestled in the dark.

Without a maternal presence to guide both their hands into something resembling compliance she had to learn Behnam's unique rules all over again. Her younger, fuzzier memories always recalled him as a temperamental shadow. He would knit in the corner, as tame as a baby bird, only to hunch and seethe when she neared. He would speak with her mother in low tones, a rumbling melody, then become silent for _days_ without warning.

Even in Hell on earth, he was strange.

One time her mother yelled at him, _screamed_ like the damned, driving him out of the cell with barbed words and raised fists. It had even startled the guards above. Talia doesn't remember why, but she knew it had something to do with her.

Another memory, one that faded further and further from her mind with each day, recalled both Behnam and her mother nestled close together in the corner of the cell where the light could barely reach.

_"Gentle, now...gentle."_

His rules became a careful list. He kept physical contact to a minimum, unless it was an emergency. He grew agitated when she talked too much or too fast. He was clever and she couldn't fool him more than once. He could survive for days on low rations and still maintain his (admittedly, tenuous) sanity. He loved to read. He loved to knit. He had loved her mother.

He hated sudden noises. He hated a dirty cell. He hated running out of string. He hated the doctor. He hated the light.

He never chanted with the others when a prisoner eventually attempted to make the foolish climb out of the pit.

_Deshi deshi, basara basara, deshi deshi, basara basara_

Once she tried to pounce on him, a childish little game she invented in her head. She'd hoped he'd play along and add an edge to the duller days. Instead, in his shock, he'd grabbed her by the neck so hard she couldn't breathe. Although she had nothing more than a bruise to show for it he withdrew from her for days, a brooding presence that wouldn't look her in the eye. Even as he gave her the usual half of his rations and muttered phrases to her from his books.

Behnam was generally indifferent toward the majority of the prisoners. That is, except for Yaakov, the designated doctor of the prison, even though he had no choice but to rely on him whenever they came down with illness or injury. His loathing would fill the doctor's little room and stifle the air with the same sensation Talia felt whenever the guards came from above to do their rare check-up. A seething loathing.

Once Yaakov had to give her stitches, when Talia had slipped and cut her knee on one of the stone steps while playing. The entire process had hurt terribly. Her mother had _very_ rarely ever let her outside of the cell. Because of this she had very rarely ever gotten hurt. The burn of antiseptic was enough to make her whimper, uncharacteristically, and Behnam's temper had flared.

_"If you do an insufficient job, Yaakov..._ " He had rasped from where he lingered in the corner. " _...I will blind you._ "

Yaakov hadn't said a word, but he had been pale as a corpse throughout the duration of their stay.

Talia would later learn that it was _his_ fault her mother had been killed. Once, when he had been checking her mother during a light fever, he forgot to lock the door before he left. Leaving her at the mercy of men who had always haunted their cell, never very far. So Talia learned to hate Yaakov, too, and hate became a new tongue for her to learn.

She was their redemption, Talia once heard Behnam say to another prisoner during a row over food. An innocence to be protected. And he?

Behnam was her protector. From everything and everyone. A few times prisoners had attempted to cross both of their boundaries, when they thought themselves clever or didn't think much at all from hunger or insanity, and he was thorough in his work. There was only ever a _single_ warning. The guards above didn't seem to mind overmuch when they had another body to collect on the way back up. Talia at first wondered if it was because it was one less mouth to feed.

She later learned it was because they enjoyed watching the fights, when the light above was bright enough to let them see. Only once she left the pit would she learn it was not so different in the outside world.

The prisoner she remembered the most had been Samson. Behnam was not well-loved, for his brawny strength or cunning mind, but Samson hated him the most. He had been a soldier, Behnam once told her over one of their meager rations, someone who felt glory was his right and all others be _damned_. He had a family. A title. A house. The latter had been the strangest detail of all to Talia.

A place that belonged to only a few? A place you could leave at any time?

Outside the pit many people gave Samson a wide berth. In the pit _nobody_ feared Samson. To be afraid was to have something to lose and everyone in the pit, one way or another, had lost it all. Fear was the closest thing to respect, she learned, for a soldier. So in his eyes, Behnam had stolen it. Then Talia stole from him.

Talia had taken something of his while he was sleeping -- a calligraphy pen, dropped by one of the guards to get the prisoners to bicker -- and it had been one of her _most_ precious treasures. She attempted to draw pictures, even though her hand never seemed to obey her whims. She wrote her name, over and over. Even when Behnam tried to get her to part with it, his eyes wide and rolling with fear at the wrath she'd invited, she refused, _desperate_ for a pocket of joy.

Driven mad with isolation and hunger, a coward through and through, Samson lured her out of the cell with promises of further gifts...and held her hostage when she was foolish enough to comply.

She'd tried to scream. She'd kicked. She bit him, earning an agonizing blow across the face. Despite Samson's best attempts to keep them both quiet Behnam had roused from his sleep.

It was there she learned how to kill. He had a deep and intimate knowledge of the lifelines running throughout the human body. His entire life had been a brutal teacher. The knife was sharp enough to nick the skin, where Samson's pulse fluttered fitfully, and bleed him out. Bane could have choked the life out of him. He was strong enough to, and came close -- indeed, she had _never_ seen him consumed with so much bloodlust -- but he showed her instead. She had to learn how to defend herself while physical strength remained out of her reach.

He later gave her the stone knife. One he made himself, somehow. It was one of _his_ most precious treasures and, even though she felt guilty for many days over what she put him through, he gave it to her without hesitance.

Over time, she grew to love him.

Despite his finicky personal space Behnam would let her sleep alongside him. Sometimes she would wake with him protectively curled around her, and he always found ways to keep her busy the moment she woke. He would knit with her, the rare time they were able to get string, and let her keep the results. His small repository of books and old newspapers were sources of knowledge he would share in quiet, steady lessons. It wasn't a happy existence, but it wasn't a miserable one, either.

Sometimes, it was even happy.

One day he told her that Lael's request was not that she remain in his care forever, but that she be the first to leave the pit. He said it over their meal, hunched possessively over his bowl and wolfing it down in his typical way, and she had laughed as if it were a joke. His gaze had turned deathly serious, then, and he'd paused in-between bites to parrot her mother's words in an imitation so startling it was as if she were truly alive and breathing once more.

_"The world belongs not to the savage, but to the ravaged. You are both, Talia, and you are loved."_

It had been beyond her scope. Far beyond the sometimes-gray, sometimes-cloudless circle above her head. Far, _far_ beyond the books he laboriously taught her to read, letter-by-letter, even as he grew shifty with exhaustion. Cities (places with many homes and many pits and many people), animals (more than the birds and insects she sometimes saw), oceans (more water than she could ever hope to see). All of these were out there.

When she asked if he would escape with her, nearly dizzy with the possibility, he told her, in his blunt manner...

" _I will never escape_."

So she refused. It was a fearful concept, even for a child that had been bred on a steady diet of terror, to traverse such a massive unknown alone. It was _unfathomable_ , still, that she should abandon her only family. She later begged him to go with her, even though she knew the answer already from the pain that filled his face and seeped through the normally indifferent cracks.

Behnam was devout. At first he insisted, gently, that the world above was hers to be taken. Then he was harsher, when Talia crossed her arms and avoided his gaze and sniffled petulantly with rare tears. Things would change between them from then on.

He no longer let her sleep with him on the cot. It was a shock, the first and second time. Once night fell she scrubbed off the day's sweat and pulled off her dirty shawl, patting the dirt out of it as best she could, and went over to snuggle into the blankets as she always did...only for him to promptly pick her up, walk across the length of the cell and set her down in the corner. No matter how many times she tried to crawl back alongside him he would do it again. Again and again they did this dance, his steady will a fitting foe for her tenacity.

Many mornings they woke up exhausted from these battles for dominance, circles heavy around their eyes and every single shared motion or word tinged with bitterness.

Over the following days his eyes grew cold. His already deliberate words became stitled. He took care of her not like his own child, but as one would take care of a blanket or a pail -- with detached efficiency, nothing more and nothing less. The next day he moved through their routines as if he were one of those half-alive creatures she sometimes read in her books. Whenever she was fed, watered, sheltered, bathed and read her books. The next day. The next day. The next day. The next day. The next day.

Over time, she grew to hate him.

Still he taught her how to fight. He took time out of every day to let her strike his calloused palms and wrestle him when they had enough energy after a meal. She bit him, once, when she could no longer bottle up the utter rage and hurt at his change in behavior. Not once did he lay a hand on her, even when she drew blood, but his silence hurt more than a retaliatory slap or kick ever could.

He kept her hair sheared close to her skull. Eventually urged her not to speak unless _absolutely_ necessary. Covered her from head-to-toe. When she bathed he was her shadow, guarding her from the prisoners' jealous eyes and keeping her secret a secret. She counted days, but only to practice her numbers. He no longer knit patterns with her. No longer took her to Yaakov for stories. No longer clumsily repeated Lael's songs in his husky, off-key timber.

_Don't be torn asunder, my pet_

__

_And be pulled under_

It festered like an uncovered wound, this betrayal. It made her sick, sometimes. Lael's daughter would fade over the many days without the care she had grown accustomed to, however guarded and disguised from the others. She almost became an unfeeling thing. Little more than a host for food and piss and breath. Perhaps like those half-dead and half-alive creatures.

__

Desultory. Wrathful. Lost. Much like Behnam, it was rumored, before he met Lael.

__

It was so terrible that, one day, she could no longer take it. She approached him in the morning, as he lay against the cell bars and ate, and demanded he lift her up to make the climb.

__

They had to wait until the prisoners were distracted. Everyone dreamt of freedom. Even worse, they dreamt of taking it from others. As Behnam described to her the precautions they would have to take she asked, again, if he'd ever tried to make the climb. He didn't answer.

__

Even though he had kept from speaking to her for a long time, somehow this silence was different than the others.

__

The guards would come and go. Nobody knew their routes and routines better than Behnam. Except, perhaps, Yaakov, whom she had to see before her climb to ensure she was in good health. The doctor was ever wary of Behnam's temper, but she could tell he knew what they were going to do. He slipped her a rare herb, something that would stave off a cold should she become sick, and bade her good luck.

__

She took it, stowed it in her pocket and cursed his name.

__

Light shone freely in the middle of the pit. Talia wandered through the sun spot and down the stairs where it grew colder. Made her careful way closer to the tall, impenetrable walls that made up her home. The other prisoners hardly looked twice her way -- some slept, others crowded in the shade and murmured to their peers in conversations that went nowhere. It was then she had wondered, like she had wondered many dozens of times before, which ones were responsible for taking her mother from her.

__

The only things she had with her were a handful of food, her stone knife, Yaakov's herb, Samson's pen (nearly out of ink) and a letter on parchment paper so old and crumpled it was like leather. The writing was swirling and faded. She could only read a little of it. It was a love letter meant for her father, Ra's al Ghul, but for some reason Lael had never sent it.

__

The very last gift she was given was a tiger's eye ring. It was, according to Behnam, the most precious item in her possession.

__

The clouds crawled through the bright blue in sluggish white smears. She'd stared and stared and stared so long that her neck ached. How they weren't large enough for rain, weren't fast enough for wind, how she would see all these things and _more_ in a matter of minutes if they were lucky. It was also more than a little possible she would never see these things again if she slipped and hit her head or if one of the guards decided to come back from lunch early.

__

The rope countless other prisoners used and dangled from after failed jumps dangled many feet above her head. She'd quivered at the sight, in an animal fear, and considered crawling back into her cell.

__

Then, without warning, Behnam lifted her up.

__

She had practiced climbing before. In the cells, up the steps. It was both alien and entirely familiar when she ground her fingers into the grooves of stone, hard enough to hurt, and dragged her weight up. It was an instinct she didn't know she had. Behnam had told her she had the best possible chance at escape because of her small size and relatively good health -- she had been lucky enough to circumvent the plague. Lucky enough to outlive her twin sister. She would have to be lucky enough once more.

__

She did not use the rope.

__

One scream, a haunting sound that echoed off the walls, pierced the air when she was high enough to risk a broken neck if she slipped. Then another followed. Then another. The wrath of the prisoners filled the pit like a storm.

__

The sheer terror manifested as sweat on her hands. Sweat that almost made her lose her grip and fall to her death, even compounded by the dirt Behnam insisted she rub on before her ascent. For a blistering second she had felt the open air beneath her feet. In a desperate fit she'd scrabbled and kicked and barely made it onto the ledge. The one that many only dreamt of.

__

On her hands and knees, shaking from the weight of what she's done, she peered down and saw the love and fear on Behnam's upturned face before he turned to fight the angry prisoners attempting to climb up and pull her back down. It was on that little plank of stone she finally understood, then and there, that he had treated her so coldly for so long...because it was the only way to get her out of the pit.

__

Fear would gift her the temporary ability of flight when she reared back and pushed with all her might to close the gap between ledge and ledge. Adrenaline would guide her up the steep walls and peek her head over the massive circle to see the vast stretch of desert she couldn't even envision in her dreams. Curiosity, a blazing fire that had consumed all else, would push her through the dangers of the outside world and into the presence of Ra's al Ghul.

__

Though not before she looked down for the last time at her world below.

__

At the heartstopping moment when the prisoners received the upper hand and swarmed Behnam like the myth of wolves, gripping his coat and hair to pull him down into death, and he had only but a second to look up and whisper...

__

_"Goodbye."_

__

__  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not. There will be a proper Bane and Blake reunion very soon.
> 
> For now...it's sad time.


	48. Thank You, Fuck You, You're Welcome

_"Robin? Grab your coat, the Blumes are almost here-Oh, Robin, my goodness. I **told** you to get ready twenty minutes ago. Where are your gloves?"_

_He pretends he can't hear -- she hates it when he does that, but he doesn't want to leave his work unfinished -- and reaches for the glue. His model house has long since been baked in the oven, smooth and shiny, but it had looked woefully bare without its neighbors decorating the front yard. He hated the itch that always scritched-scratched in the back of his mind when he had finishing touches to do..._

_He's dipping his brush into his cup and preparing for the careful task of adding dots to his father's coat when it's suddenly plucked out of his hands._

_"Ma!" He whines, rising halfway in an attempt to snatch it back._

_"Robin." She waves it just out of his reach. A few droplets stain the newspaper spread out on the floor. "Brush your hair and put on your coat **now**. They'll be here any minute."_

_Robin stomps angrily in place. When that doesn't work he turns around, crosses his arms and refuses to budge. He didn't **want** to see the Blumes. Their food wasn't nearly as good as his mother's and they always tried to make him play outside in their gross backyard with those kids he didn't like -- Robin hated getting dirty, but Mr. Blume would always tell him 'that's what boys do'._

_Mr. Blume's oldest son, Chris, thought it was funny to kick mud onto Robin's favorite socks last time they visited for dinner. In his anger he'd punched him square in the nose and got grounded for a month. It was going to happen again, because Chris was boring and stupid, and the last thing he wants is to be kept from his projects._

_He's told Ma this before. She didn't listen then and, judging by the wrinkles forming on her forehead and the impatient cock to her hip, she wasn't going to listen now._

_"Oh, Robin. Please." She has a hand in her curls, more exasperated than angry. "Not now. It will only be for a few hours. This meeting is very important to your father. If it goes well we can finally get a cat. You still want one, right?"_

_His arms are still tightly crossed, but her long-suffering tone makes him tense with guilt. Robin slowly shuffles in place, looking up through his floppy bangs and trying to gauge her expression without looking her in the eye._

_"Can I pick the cat?"_

_"We'll all pick the cat. They'll be part of the family."_

_Robin considers this._

_"Can you build with me if I go?" He asks, tentatively, in an attempt to bargain further._

_She sighs and finally smiles, in that way that says 'You're going whether you want to or not, but I'll humor you.'_

_"Of course, Robin. As long as you behave yourself." She seems to take pity on him, then, because she finally hands him the brush and jerks her head in the direction of his clay house. "How is the house turning out? I see you have more tiny people."_

_"You like them?" He beams, bad mood immediately forgotten, and drops onto his knees again to peer into it. "I'm gonna fill it with as many as I can. I copied this one after that fat woman at the bank. She's gonna sit on the lawn and tell people who cross the street to pay their taxes early."_

_"Robin!" She chides, even as she leans down to observe with him. "That's not a nice thing to say."_

_"Why?" He pulls over his tin cup. "Bobeshi is fat, too."_

_He dips his paintbrush and starts adding dots with a shaky hand. This is the longest project he's ever worked on -- it's a little lumpy and has too many windows (when he looked at the houses in his neighborhood, he had to accept that fourteen really was too many), but he's immensely proud of all the tiny people he has filling up the rooms. His mother kneels carefully, minding the delicate pantyhose on the dirty floor._

_"Who's that?" She asks, tapping one of the figures by the front door._

_Robin blinks. "That's you, ma."_

_She pauses, then smiles quickly. "Oh. Of course. You even made my hat!" She reaches out to pick it up, then thinks better of it._

_Robin fiddles moodily with the paint tube. "I'm still not good at making people. They always look like dumb blobs."_

_She clucks her tongue sympathetically and places a firm kiss on top of his head. "That's okay. You're very good with people and that's the most important thing of all. I'm sure they'll look better in time. Come on. They just pulled up outside. Don't forget your gift."_

_Robin lets out a gusty sigh and gets to his feet. He hurries on his black peacoat and grabs one of his scarves by the door, tossing it around his shoulders in lieu of bundling it in his collar. It takes him nearly a minute to find his favorite blue gloves, but in the timespan between digging under his bed and kicking over his dirty laundry he makes sure to sneak one of his small clay figures in his pocket. Something to play with when the boys weren't watching. Maybe he'd make a tiny model of Chris and stick it upside-down in the fake grass._

_It's snowing outside when he runs downstairs. Fat clumps of frost drift on the breeze and cake everything in white like frosting on a cake. His hand quivers with excitement as he wriggles the knob again and again (difficult with his fuzzy gloves) and steps into the frigid wind._

_Robin picks up as much snow as he can and tosses it gleefully into the air...then immediately regrets it when a stiff breeze sends most of it right in his face and down the front of his coat. He should've tucked in his scarf. He sputters and pats himself off hurriedly before it melts._

_"Da, I think the snow hates me."_

_He picks up a handful and tries to pat it into a snowball instead. It only then occurs to him that nobody's outside. Robin looks away from the lumpy pile threatening to spill over his gloves around the bare yard, then to the frosted, empty streets._

_"Bobeshi?"_

_He pats his snowball a little more, then glances over his shoulder at the house. Only the wind seems to answer._

_"...Ma?"_

Blake wakes up in Batman's hideout.

At first it doesn't click. He's just getting off a painkiller high and is still not entirely sure what transpired over the past twenty-four hours. An elderly man (a butler, perhaps) has been tending to him every since he sat up in bed and won't stop calling him 'sir'.

"I had to operate on you immediately to reduce your risk of infection." He's saying to him from across the small, clean room. "You lost a bit of blood, but not enough for a transfusion. Your energy will be rather low, still, so please don't be surprised at any sudden dizziness. Bruce would rather you remain in bed as you recover. Unless you need to go to the bathroom. I can wheel you there." He adds, as polite and sweet as a kindergarten teacher.

He reminds Blake a little of Reilly. If he had a British accent and ever wore a three-piece suit, that is.

Blake learns his name is Alfred and he's worked a cushy job as a butler for the Wayne family for decades. The man proceeds to detail the ins and outs of his injuries, starting with the long graze along the right side of his head -- it's a thick cut that moves past his temple, meaning his hair had to be trimmed for stitches. It's ironic, looking at himself and seeing the (admittedly, well-done) crop and shorter bangs. He looks more like he did when he joined the force.

He's also told he'll have a permanent limp. Somehow it's the least of his concerns when he slides down his (now clean) jeans, rolls down the top of his briefs and inspects the wound himself in a handheld mirror. Two of the birds are all but gone under swollen skin and a lumpy trail of stitches. The last has almost vanished entirely -- the bullet went straight through his tattoo.

"I tried as best I could to salvage it." Alfred starts, softly. He sounds so sympathetic it's almost as if he knows it means more to him than just an aesthetic touch. "If you want I can contact a-"

"It's _fine_." Blake snaps. "I'm alive, aren't I?" Alfred's face falls and he apologies, roughly. "...Sorry. I'm really not...look. I need to get out of here."

"Ah, yes, about that..." He starts, only to lean back when Blake pushes past him and limps out the door. He didn't have _time_ to lay in bed with a forehead rag. Too many people needed his help right now. The butler follows him with a rapid _clip-clap_ , calling out his name and urging him to slow down.

It's only when he feels a rush of cool, not _cold_ , air does Blake finally pause. ...Where the hell was he?

He's underground, that much is now clear. Somewhere filled to choking with dark, glistening stone. A massive...cave. It's unlike the storm drains -- where they had been a dim labyrinth of angular concrete and metal grates, the feel of this place is much more organic. Even in the low light everything seems to faintly glitter. Blake looks around, around some more, then quickly behind him when he catches the sound of a waterfall in the distance. The rush of water is serene, far more serene than he feels, and even at a distance he can feel the gentle breeze traveling through the tunnels.

They seem to be near some sort of landing pad. At least, that's the best way he can describe it. The 'room' they're in (though it doesn't look the sort, not really) spreads out wide, eventually blending into rock wall or breaking off into darkness. He's sure there are other things here, but the lack of light isn't cluing him in.

"Uh...okay." He mutters, gaping around him. "Am I...?"

A second pair of footsteps accompany Alfred's.

"Like it?" Bruce says as he strolls up, hands in his pockets as casual as if he were showing him around a museum. His hair is shaggy and flecked with gray, a still-scruffy look that's still cleaned up somewhat with his smooth jaw and well-ironed clothes. "Not quite where it used to be, but that's what happens when you're gone for months."

"I've done my best to maintain it while you were away." Alfred says, sounding a touch stung. "The reason the lights aren't on is because your energy bill is through the roof."

"Where the hell am I?" Blake asks when he manages to find his voice.

"My base." A self-aware smile spreads across the older man's face. "Call it the Batcave, if you want."

"Where's...Selina...?" He asks, tentatively feeling his way through it all. "She was with us..."

Bruce cocks his head over his shoulder. "They're resting. As you should be, really." What? _They?_ His relief and confusion alike are short-lived, though, when he adds, "You really should've stayed in bed. You need to have all your strength up for what's to come." He studies Blake's expression, then adds. "It...might be better to pick up where you left off. What do you remember?"

"Remember? I remember..." His memory skips like an old DVD. Everything is random input. Images flash by one-by-one without any context, though a sudden rise of panic surges up through his throat at one in particular. The city lights below him like a vision of the night sky.

"Do you remember flying?" Bruce says, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling in mock-thought. "I'll admit, I _was_ surprised it managed to find us in the midst of all that-"

"Wait, wait, wait..." Blake holds up a hand. "I _flew?_ "

"The Bat picked us up." Batman clarifies, simply. Like it has a mind of its own. Alfred nods politely, then gestures somewhere in the darkness. If he squints he can make out a massive shape nestled in the black.

The detective runs a slow hand over his mouth and looks back at them. The...Bat? The _hell_? Like an overstuffed pantry he scrounges through his memory with new fervor. Cold leather...bunching under his weight. Flashes of light trying to break through his peripheries. A cocoon of darkness. Lights and gunfire and smoke. A _lot_ of yelling. What else? What else...

_Dozens of officers. Hundreds. He has no goddamn idea. He's too busy running at breakneck speed, as much as he can with his right leg feeling like it's about to fall straight off his body. The massive expanse of the library's third story suddenly seems cramped. So many bodies are clashing for attention or trying to drag down the person next to them._

_Protesters. Mercenaries. It's not a fight. It's worse._

_He's downstairs. He's outside. He's grabbed by both shoulders in the next breath. It's one of the officers, someone he doesn't recognize, yelling at him to comply._

_" **Get off!** "_

_Blake instinctively rears back and slams his forehead into the guy's nose with all his might. Bone crunches and a spray of hot blood arcs over his hair. He doesn't have time to worry about it getting into his eyes. He takes advantage of the man's stunned state and books it._

_He's shoving people to the side with **all** his strength, trying to get himself some room before he's knocked over and trampled to death. Someone else reaches out for him, another officer, someone who clearly recognizes **him** by the immediacy in their tone. He raises his fists for another fight..only for them to suddenly crumple from a bat to the head. Harleen waves him through. Her hair is out of her pigtails, a flurry of frizzy curls around her head like a halo in the shifting light._

_"Get Selina and get outta here!" She yells. "Goodnight can only take so much!"_

_Selina? Where _was_ she? There's no time for questions. He's stumbling with her through the chaos, the cluster of hot bodies and smoke and god knows what else making it so damn hard to even breathe..._

That's right. Gordon was there. So was Foley. Selina, Bane, Barsad. Where had Harleen ended up, though? She was right there with him... Bruce Wayne and Alfred continue to stand side-by-side and watch him quietly, their expressions impossible to read.

_He makes it to the downtown square before he can't run anymore. Blake grips his leg and grabs onto a car with his other hand just in time to keep himself from falling. He grinds his forehead into the side-door in agony -- blood is oozing out of the corners of his grip, dribbling onto the ground. He's losing too much blood. He can't see more than a few feet in front of him. Where did Harleen go? The detective tries to blink sweat out of his eyes and looks around for her._

_Like a routine straight out of a flash mob what seems like every last person in the fray suddenly drops to the ground. A massive black shape appears against the evening sky. It's way too large to be a helicopter. It looks more like a tank...except tanks don't fucking **fly**. Shaped like some sort of beetle, sleek and shiny and thrumming with power, it descends upon them and kicks up smoke and gas into a raging cloud._

_He's coughing, trying to hunch behind the car and away from the glaring blue lights starting to swim throughout the sea of people. Sparks ring off its polished hide -- a few of the officers have started firing at it. Blake yells at them to stop, **damn** it, those could ricochet and kill someone-!_

_It would almost be funny how the crowd starts to spread out and disperse not from the new development just yards above them, but from the gunfire popping above their heads. True residents of Gotham. The closed air parts and, for a brief moment, he can **finally** breathe..._

_"You're coming with me." A voice grates behind him._

_Blake whirls around just as Batman snatches him by the arm. Without preamble he yanks him toward the giant death machine hovering in the air like a bad omen._

_"What the hell are you doing-" Blake starts, grinding his heels into the ground only to slip on his own blood. "Let go!"_

_"Do you want to stay here and get arrested?" Batman snaps. "Or shot again?"_

_No. No, he really doesn't. But he has no idea where the hell they're going to take him and he can't find Bane. The last he saw of him before everything went to Hell he was fighting off what seemed like a dozen men. They had fallen like dominoes beneath his onslaught, stumbling back with broken noses if they weren't simply dropping to the floor in a heap. Some turned and fled._

_Even fully armed, everyone had been terrified of him._

_He was at the library. Then outside. Then he vanished in the crowd-_

_In the blink of an eye Selina melts out of the rushing, fleeing bodies. This seems to short-circuit Batman's already thin patience._

_"Damn it, get **in!** "_

_He's shoved inside. He hits his back and slides along a length of silky smooth leather. The sour, bloody air is cut off, abruptly, and replaced with something cold and sterile. Glass, or something similar, glitters above his head. It would be beautiful, almost, if not for the sudden and stomach-dropping lurch of motion that follows. Everything rises. Higher and higher and higher and higher and higher-_

_"Oh, shit." He breathes. "O-Oh, shit-"_

_Selina is in the same boat he is. Her face is white as a sheet with both hands curving a death grip into the leather seats. Blood is splattered along her neck, dark in the closed lighting, and her hair clings to it in messy ribbons. She's injured, he can tell, but he doesn't know where._

_"What the hell...!" Blake tries to yell, but it barely comes out as more than a croak._

_"I hate this thing." Selina hisses under her breath._

_"You're welcome." Batman says from the cockpit._

_Blake scrambles on his hands and feet to look out the window at the crowds below. He scans the blur of faces, hurriedly, even though he knows there's fuck all he can do. He can't see Gordon. Or Foley. Or Harleen. Or Barbara. Or..._

_He sees him. The masked man is in the thick of the crowd, easily a head taller than most of the people around him. The last thing he remembers is Bane looking up at their departure before fading beneath a haze of clouds._

"Fuck." Blake whispers as it all sinks in. "...Oh, no..."

"Yeah, it's not everyone's cup of tea." Bruce says with a shrug. "My manufacturer said he's going to work on the stability controls more with the next model."

"No, no." Blake shakes his head vehemently. "What the _hell_ happened to everyone else? I had a friend in there, then Selina was in that thing-the Bat-but then Gordon was-"

"There's a lot to catch you up on. I'll try to give you the abridged version and you can ask me questions as we go." Bruce promptly turns and walks the length of the stone space and up a small flight of steps that light up one-by-one. A sudden bright white flashes in a square and makes Blake squint -- he's flicking on a series of monitors with snaps of his fingers. "The riots are still going as we speak."

"Up this way, sir." Alfred says, gesturing up the sleek stairs. "Mind your step."

Blake takes a few uneven steps forward, across the artificial space, then up. One monitor shows a shaky camera attempting to capture footage of the riots, though it's almost impossible to make out anything in the movement. Another one shows someone being wheeled into an ambulance. Yet another one shows a glimpse of Bane, his dark mask an unmistakable beacon in the violence before it vanishes in a haze of smoke. He looks back and forth between them in a daze...then pauses on the one right in the middle.

There are _dozens_ of helicopters. Drifting through the air like a military strike, except it's in his own city. His _home_. Dropping smoke bombs. Firing bullets. One is shot down, he has no idea by whom or from where, and it goes up in a plume of fire that nearly reaches the tallest buildings...

"The biggest riot in Gotham's history. I've seen estimates saying numbers reached nearly thirty thousand, with a third of that just downtown. Some neighborhoods are still clashing with officers, right now. As for the death count..." Bruce recites mechanically, only to let out a long sigh. "...well. I can't say you helped much with that."

Blake pauses halfway up the stairs.

"...What are you talking about?"

"Commissioner Gordon is facing charges of manslaughter." Bruce says, typing something into a glowing keyboard and pulling up a clip of the latest news -- the video shows a cluster of reporters outside what seems to be a hospital. "Foley is dead."

Blake's ears start to ring strangely. Charges? _Dead?_ No. That didn't happen because he didn't kill him. He didn't try to kill him. He fired back in self-defense. That's _all_. He suddenly feels sick.

"The department is trying to figure out if Gordon's the one responsible or if he was an accomplice to you." Bruce continues. "Regardless, he's in hot water and you're better off staying here and laying low. At least, for now. Wait, where are you-"

Blake is making his unsteady way back down the stairs, searching for somewhere, _anywhere_ , else to be. Bruce's voice continues to call out to him, but he sounds like he's a thousand feet away. He's wanted for murder? Gordon's taking the fall? The protests are still going, the ones with helicopters descending on them like a plague of locusts...

He thinks he feels a hand on his shoulder, but he's too out of it to be sure. He wanders through the dark space, even though he has no clue where he's going. His hands eventually manage to find cold, rough ground -- judging by the tickle of cold air on his face, he's made it to the river winding its way through the cave and contributing to that waterfall. It's a good place as any to throw up.

He's not sure how long he's there, but in-between dry-heaves and attempts to control his shaking he realizes a napkin is being held out to him. Blake looks up to see Alfred hovering beside him, pale face twisted in concern.

"There, there." Another gentle pat on his shoulder. "There you go. Easy does it."

His brain eventually makes the connection between his hand and the napkin and he wipes his mouth tediously, even as his stomach clutches in nauseous little fits. Alfred leaves him to walk a few feet away and confer with Bruce in hasty whispers.

"...might've come on a little strong there..." Bruce sighs. "...not much I could..."

"...give him a little time..." Alfred is muttering. "...displaying signs of severe mental duress. Perhaps the onset of a panic disorder...some form of post-traumatic stress..."

"...don't have time for a six-to-eight week cognitive behavioral therapy session..." Bruce mutters back. "...all the help we can get right now. I haven't seen Gotham this bad since I got out of retirement. Bane is _still_..."

"How good will help do you injured _and_ psychologically unwell?" Alfred insists, a little louder now. "He's still recovering from two shots to the leg and hip, I might add, and his brain activity is highly unusual, even for what he's been through. A few days' time won't hurt any. You just got back and you haven't even let me check how _you're_ doing-"

"...Bane."

Both men turn to him sharply. Blake wonders if he was too loud. His ears are still ringing, like a bad case of tinnitus, and he feels like his body is about to float up to the cave ceiling in the fashion of a balloon. He repeats himself, if only for his own sanity.

"Bane. Where is he? I need to see him."

They exchange a look. Alfred looks...apprehensive. At best. Bruce is the first to speak, though there's something incredibly strained about his tone.

"...I don't know." He says. "I'll find out soon, though."

"Is he hurt?" He starts, rising to his feet only to feel his body wobble like it's made of rubber.

"I'd be surprised if he _wasn't_ , considering our little duel." Bruce drawls. Why the hell was he looking at him like that? Did he...? No. How could he know? It was probably the painkillers making him paranoid. Bruce _was_ hot off the heels of an unexpected reunion, after all, where Blake literally fought him to stop him from attacking Bane. Then he shot Foley in the head.

That'd make anyone a little skeevy.

"Where's the phone? My phone? I need to..." Blake pats his jeans, learning quickly anything and everything he had on his person is somewhere else. "I need to call my boys."

"You'll have to hold off on that." Bruce sounds impatient now -- he jerks a thumb to the screens behind him for emphasis. "You're wanted? The last thing we need-"

"You don't understand. I _need_ to contact them." He snaps. "The orphanage barely has anyone else looking after it. Did you just forget about your Wayne Foundation going belly up? You've been gone for months."

"Now, now, sir." Alfred says, infuriatingly calm and holding up two placating hands. "I'm sure we can work something out-"

"Work something _out_? You took me here against my will." He yells. "Where the hell do either of you get off telling me what I can or can't _do?_ "

"Sir, please stay calm, your injuries-"

"Don't _tell_ me to stay calm!" Now he's screaming, loud enough to echo throughout the cavern. "Don't call me sir! Don't _tell_ me I can't see my goddamn boys, you can't _keep_ me here-"

Somewhere in the back of his mind he imagines Blake from a few months ago, before he got snatched up by the League Of Shadows and before his entire life flipped upside down. The one that was relatively more self-assured and convinced he was going to do some good. Then he imagines a future Blake, maybe a year or three from now if he were to exist, in a jail cell or in another country under a new name. Probably more tired. More bitter.

They're both looking at him and shaking their heads. Right now, he's the Blake that's two seconds away from losing his shit.

"If you want to go out and get arrested, be my guest-" Bruce is saying. Alfred gives him a look and tries to inch closer, still acting the part of the peacekeeper.

"Don't _fucking_ touch me-" Blake pulls back sharply. "I'm not about to make this already shit day worse by tackling an old man!"

"I'm afraid I could take you, in this state." Alfred says, wryly. "All you need to do, sir, is just take a few deep breaths and let us explain-"

" _I told you to stop calling me sir-_ "

"Holy hell, would you stop yelling? I can hear you from halfway across the cave!"

The hubbub dies down to nothing as Selina walks out. She's not wearing her leather catsuit anymore, though the tight black v-neck and skinny jeans make a fitting comparison. While not limping or in obvious pain, she's more pale than normal and seems a little out-of-breath when she reaches them. Her sarcastic tone hasn't changed one bit.

"Damn it, Selina. _Why_ aren't you laying down?" Bruce says with a hand on his forehead. Selina rolls her eyes, clearly not appreciating his meager attempt at concern.

"Like I said, it's because you're all yelling like a pack of hyenas."

"I can vouch for that. Y'all sound _just_ like Bud and Lou when they get into a tussle." Harleen pops up beside her. She's wearing her pigtails again, though unlike Selina she's only dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of boyshorts. Alfred averts his eyes politely. 

Blake stares stupidly. How did she get here? Last he saw her she was hopping from car to car like a game of Frogger. No...no, that's not true. He'd ran into her in the crowd. She helped him out. But he didn't remember her getting into the not-helicopter-not-tank. The Bat. Whatever. It didn't matter. Harleen would help. They've worked something out between them.

"Harleen, tell them. You have to tell them. They're not listening to me." He lurches forward and grips her shoulders. "Tell them I have to leave. My boys _need_ me. Gotham's on lockdown and Reilly needs help. He _can't_ run the show all on his own-"

" _Harleen?_ " Batman repeats, surprised and in the _worst_ way. Harleen winces and makes a cutting gesture along her throat.

"Ixnay on the Arleen-hay..." She says, then adds through clenched teeth in his ear. "I told 'im my name was Janet Jac-"

"You got kids?" Selina interrupts, before the scene can get any uglier. Or weirder. "Where?

He's still trembling with adrenaline. Or the fact he has nothing in his stomach and is running on empty. Something or another.

"Yeah. At St. Swithin's. It's a boy's home."

Her eyes widen, a little. It seems she's heard of it before. Blake's not sure if he's imagining it, but Selina gives Alfred a knowing glance. Harleen pats his hands (still gripping the front of her t-shirt, white with a big pink heart in the middle-) and brings him back to reality.

"Well." She says, in a voice softer than he'd think possible from the energetic woman. "I think now's a good time to get some grub, don't you think?"

"Yeah. You got anything to eat, Bruce?" Selina adds. "I'm starving."

\--

He feels a little better once he has some food.

Just a little.

Turns out Harleen had been picked up halfway at Selina's insistence. It said something about her friendship with Bruce that he would temporarily park The Bat and actually let her inside. Tatsu, apparently, had taken custody of her hyenas in-between -- Harleen immediately buries her face in her hands and wails about how she should've taken her babies with her.

"I'm a little disturbed you have them at _all_." Bruce says in-between her dramatic sobs. "I don't think I have enough fingers to count all the exotic animal laws you've violated."

"Says the guy who dresses up like an exotic animal to punch people in the face." Harleen says, sticking out her tongue.

Alfred has served them all a rather nice dish of baked white fish and breadrolls. Blake's not a wine person, so he's instead supplied with a steady stream of coffee -- a delicious, slightly tart dark roast that gets better with every sip. He'd almost be perked up if not for the fact that the reality of his situation is presented in one long, humiliating conga line.

He's wanted for murder. The Gotham City Police Department has since taken Commissioner Gordon into custody and the only reason he hasn't been tried yet is because of the chaos still going on -- considering they were looking for him, still, it was likely Gordon had told them what he did...or Foley flat-out implicated him with his dying breaths. Harleen clucks sympathetically in-between bites. Selina, curled in one of the chairs beside her and sipping red wine, hardly bats an eye.

Because of this his freelance job has been altered and cut him off -- Bruce told him it wasn't exactly hard finding _this_ out because his employers were also asked to turn over any and all information to the Gotham City Police Department. To top things off, his apartment has been seized. He's sure everyone at the orphanage knows. No...no, they'd definitely know.

His chest sinks. What would they all think of him? They didn't even know the truth.

"The only reason I haven't turned you in is because you reacted in self-defense. Even though you really _should_ show more hesitance when it comes to killing." Bruce finishes. He's not eating much, more picking at his food than anything, even though he looks thinner than Blake remembers him. "Gotham could use a little restraint."

" _If I've learned anything about you, Blake..._ " Bane's voice echoes in the back of his mind. " _...is that you're more hesitant to fire_."

"He tried to kill me. Twice." Blake responds, voice flat as an iron. "I think I've earned the right to defend myself."

Bruce looks unimpressed. "Then knock him out. Disable him. But killing is off-limits."

"Why? So he can just try again?" He tears off another bite of bread and talks out of the side of his mouth. "Killing is a last resort, but sometimes you're left with no other choice."

"There's _always_ another choice. You're seeing where your brash decision got you."

"Like when _you_ didn't kill Scarecrow and he escaped?"

" _Ooh_." Harleen grins, bright eyes flicking back and forth between them. " _Your_ turn, Bats."

Bruce gives her a look that could turn grass yellow. Alfred looks a little uncomfortable, hovering over his shoulder, but otherwise he's as silent as a mannequin and about as intrusive. Even as he clearly wants to say something every time Bruce picks up a slice of bread just to set it back down again.

"That was a failure of the institution." Bruce says, looking calmer than he sounds. "There's only so much I can do. The rest is up to you and everyone else in this city."

"And _my_ methods aren't yours." Blake wolfs down the rest of his fish. _God_ , he's hungry. "We have similar goals, don't we? Let's leave it at that."

"Similar goals...alongside your relationship with Bane." Blake pauses mid-bite, finally feeling an emotion other than dull anger, but it's the worst kind. An icy dread that makes his already parched throat as bare as a bone. "You didn't seem to fear him. You also knew how to piece back his mask. I'm not liking how these clues are adding up and I'd love it if you could fill me in."

Blake considers his tone. He doesn't seem accusing. Not as much as usual, anyway. If anything, he sounds curious. Bruce must be thinking of something else entirely. He takes another bite of his bread and chews slowly to buy himself time. At least he wasn't faking exhaustion -- he genuinely wants to do nothing else than pawn a few more painkillers off of Alfred and curl up in a corner.

He thinks on how he disagreed with Gordon, from what seems like years ago, on how withholding the truth only spelled disaster. He was learning the hard way that waiting, sometimes, was smarter than the benefit of the doubt. Blake from a few months back would've practically gift-wrapped all the details for Bruce with a red bow on top. How things have changed.

"Whatever you're doing, it can't be easy." Bruce says into his thoughtful silence. "Not with a man like Bane."

"No. It's not." Blake says. It's not entirely dishonest. In the span it takes for Alfred to fill up his glass of water (with a knowing look) and for him to ease up off his injured leg he comes up with a story to get Batman sniffing further down the wrong trail. It'll have to be enough until he's in a less precarious predicament. ...If that _ever_ happened.

"I've been spying on him."

Selina, having been relatively indifferent all the while, finally glances over. Harleen cocks an eyebrow...then slowly beckons a hand over her shoulder for more wine.

"Spying on him." Bruce repeats, doubt clear in his pale eyes. "You left the force, with _all_ its resources, and pissed off Commissioner Gordon to spy on _Bane_. Someone the CIA has had trouble capturing for _years_."

"That's what I said." Blake says. Bruce leans back in his seat and studies him. He can practically see the scrolling across his face.

"...You said Jonathan Crane and a madwoman were on the loose." Selina interjects. "While I don't think Bane is anywhere near 'the least of our concerns', that's a detail that needs explaining."

"That was something I was going to get to soon enough. We're better off asking first why _you_ were spying on us the entire time." Batman says to her, clearly stung she didn't step in sooner to intervene. "A helping hand would have been nice."

"For someone who models themselves after a bat, you sure aren't subtle. When there are missing pieces, I wait and I watch. It's a good thing I did, because you might've screwed us all over otherwise by turning him in too soon." Her mouth twists. "Trust me, I want to see Bane gone as _much_ as you do. But anyone with a pair of eyes could see...this..." She jerks her head at Blake. "...wasn't usual."

Blake's eyes flick back and forth uncomfortably as they discuss him like a third wheel. Batman is still unconvinced. Harleen raises a hand, then shrugs and speaks anyway.

"Sherlock's a pal of mine." She chirps. "Helped me take out Crane's little operation over at The Narrows. Trust me, this guy wouldn't pal around with Bane and his band of bozos unless there was a _real_ good reason."

' _You're a pretty good liar, too, Harleen._ ' He thinks. ' _Batman knows your identity now...but does he know about you participating in the rebellions?_ '

"Yeah. Also that." Selina agrees, then takes another bite of her fish -- judging by the way her eyes flutter, it was a favorite food of hers. "When I caught you two at the library I wasn't about to become a liability until I got the full picture. Then Blake stepped in. The guy did us both a big favor not too long ago. Enough to be worth the benefit of the doubt."

Blake's chest grows warm at this unexpected defense. So _that's_ why she got involved. He pokes at the remainder of his food, suddenly a little shy.

"A touching sentiment, Selina. I still know you're willing to do anything to get what you want." Bruce says, much more bitingly. "So you all know each other. While that's nice to know, there are a lot of unanswered questions here."

"I've gotten more leads going my own way than working under...bad management." Blake raises his eyebrows sardonically. "I think we can see eye-to-eye on that, at least."

Bruce puts a chin in his hand, suddenly thoughtful. "Lucius Fox is the head of the Wayne Board now, isn't he...since Miranda Tate took extended leave." He rubs his temples. "I hope she's all right. I heard Bane had gotten to both of them while I was gone."

' _Oh, shit._ ' Blake thinks, even though his face is steeled into one of cool complacency. ' _You don't even know who she really is._ '

"So...what happened to you?" Blake asks -- Alfred's expression flickers, struggling mightily to keep up his composure. Now he's _really_ reminded of Reilly. "Bane...mentioned you before. Said he toppled you before taking over. I knew you weren't dead, but that was about it."

"I was sold out." He says, and that bitterness swimming beneath the surface crops up in full force. Selina is looking pointedly at the wall. "Sold out and lead into a trap a few months back. Bane and I fought in the storm drains. He cracked my spine and, instead of killing me, sent me to the Lazarus Pit. It's an ancient prison in the East that's been around for centuries. Famous for being impossible to escape, to the point some don't even think it truly exists."

There's surprise on Blake's face, and Bruce seems satisfied with it, but it's not about the pit. He knew about that already. Bane had told him, in more detail than he could ever wish to know, about the _literal_ hell hole he grew up in since he was a small child. How he was the only kid _there_ , surrounded by murderers and rapists and goodness knows who else.

No, he just didn't know he threw fucking Bruce Wayne in there for months and never _told_ him about it.

"How the hell did you get out?" He asks, food long forgotten. Harleen has her chin in both hands, leaning forward like a child hearing a good campfire story.

"I climbed." Bruce says. There's a haunted look in his eyes he didn't notice before, or perhaps the legendary billionaire is simply feeling more relaxed and open now. Either way, it's horrible to see. "With the help of one of the prison doctors. They were also the ones who told me about his mask and what it's used for. Gave me the upper-hand in that fight."

"That's..." Blake starts, then trails off. Bane had said nobody had ever escaped the pit outside of Talia. Bruce managed to do it with a partially broken _back?_ Even with help, that's... He leans back in his seat and just stares. It's like seeing him for the first time all over again. The man that had become Gotham's simultaneous savior and curse rolled into one.

"You must've been lucky not to witness much of his cruelty firsthand, if you're this surprised." Bruce is looking him up and down. As if trying to assess any damage he thinks he's sustained in the time he was gone. "I read about what happened to you _and_ Gordon a few months back. Bane, or his mercenaries, held you hostage."

He was a detective and wouldn't hold the title without doing background checks as casually as browsing the morning paper. There's no reason to lie about this. At least, not entirely.

"Yeah." Blake takes a deep drink of his coffee. "Talk about sink or swim."

"What did he do to you? Let's start there."

"Ha. What _didn't_ he do? Guy straight-up dislocated my shoulder the first time we fought. Then he chained me up. Beat the shit out of me a few other times in...'sparring' matches." He finger-quotes around his mug as he takes a drink of his cooling coffee -- it's _damn_ delicious and he can already tell the flavor will linger on his tongue for hours. "Told me I was full of shit in a hundred different ways. I've had debate classes in college that involved less talking."

"He did always like to play with his victims." Bruce mutters darkly. Blake couldn't exactly rebuke that, even though he's lying his ass off. "So...how'd you go from being one of his hostages to double-crossing him? Who were you planning on reporting to once you left the force?"

It's disgustingly natural, navigating a minefield of half-truths and white lies. Just like putting on a mask, though this time it was _less_ an attempt to shield others from his anger and more an attempt to keep the city from sinking into the ocean on a foundation of bad decisions. He tells him Gordon was originally his source (not entirely false), he had plans to meet up with Waller (increasingly false) and that Bane had taken a shine to him during his capture (more true than he knows).

"Bane asked you to join the _League?_ " He asks, and he only seems a little surprised. Blake, in spite of himself, is flattered. "That's not an offer he would make lightly."

"Yeah. It's not even the weirdest job offer I've gotten." It's an attempt at a joke, but then he remembers he _lost_ his actual job and probably had his bank account suspended. He'd have to double-check that once he left. ...If he left.

"Did he ever...?" Bruce trails off, casually, though his gaze is worried. _Too_ worried to imply something blasé like torture or manipulation.

Blake chokes on his coffee. He coughs and wipes his mouth and shakes his head vehemently, a spike of anger working its way through him at the mere suggestion. What kind of man did he think Bane _was?_ The infamous mercenary was comfortable with all sorts of fucked-up things, sure. Psychological torment. Kidnapping. Snapping people's necks on live television. He also would never cross _that_ line.

He thinks on how Bane had been attracted to him long before they ever got physical...and Blake had been the one to make the first move. He's growing more frustrated every second in this damned place and he has to will himself to be patient.

"No." Blake says, trying to yank the anger back and failing miserably. "He didn't."

"I'm just asking." Bruce holds up a calming hand. "I'm not sure how much he shared with you about the League, but you'll probably want to know he was too extreme for its previous leader. He was excommunicated by a very intelligent and _very_ insane man, so...I don't put much past him."

' _Extreme, huh?_ ' Blake thinks, bitterly. ' _There are some things he'd never do, but it seems that list grows shorter by the minute. Bane told me he **left**. Not that he was kicked out. On the other hand, Bruce, you're not always honest yourself._ '

"Aside from kicking my ass, he actually treated me with more respect than my previous bosses." Blake says, instead. It tickles him in retrospect. "Bar couldn't get any lower."

"I don't think Gotham ever _had_ a bar." Selina mutters. Bruce shoots her a look. Whatever was going on between them, it ran deep and he _definitely_ didn't want to be caught in the middle. Judging by Harleen's empathetic grimace behind her (second, third, fourth-) glass of wine, she was feeling something similar.

"Speaking of which. Selina, Bruce mentioned you and Bane crossed paths..." Blake starts, already teeming with nervousness at how disgustingly vague that statement is.

"We can talk about that later." Bruce interrupts when Selina opens her mouth to answer. She shuts it with an audible _clack_ and looks approximately _this_ close to shoving her fork up his ass. "We're a little short on time. What are you going to do from here, Blake? Time is of the essence here, what with him claiming to have a bomb..."

It was time to give it his best shot.

"Let me see Bane again before he leaves Gotham."

The table goes quiet.

"You think he'll _leave_ Gotham." It's only partially a question. "During lockdown? After all this?" It's clear Bruce is wrestling with the Bane he thinks he knows and the Bane he _thinks_ Blake knows. The detective resists the urge to rub his temples and reaches out to refill his mug -- Alfred immediately takes it, much to his chagrin, and fills it to the brim.

"Let me ask _you_ a question, then." Blake says, mouthing a silent ' _Thank you._ ' to Alfred. "Do you think he'll be _able_ to slip out of the city even through the crackdown?"

"He was trained under the League Of Shadows, who have made history making a mockery of government sanctions. When they weren't pulling governments apart altogether." He sighs sharply through his nose. "So, yes."

"So...if there's even a _small_ chance he could just slip right under our noses to who-knows-where, then there's no time for me to waste." He wolfs down the rest of his food.

"You're sure you want to rush back into the fold with your injuries?" Bruce asks, with an additional glance at Alfred as if to say, ' _See? I care._ '.

"If I was going to fall over dead I think I would've done it by now."

"Well." Bruce considers. "If he's warmed up to you as much as you say, then you'll make it much easier to track him down in the midst of all this. I'll follow from a-"

"No." Blake interrupts, a little too quickly, and he has to follow up just as quickly when Bruce's eyes glint with suspicion. "Just...listen. I've been going after this for months. I've had to sacrifice a better paying job, a more stable career path and the respect of a _lot_ of people to get to this point. I'm not going to let you butt in and unravel everything I've done. Everything I'm still trying to do."

He remains firm under Bruce's analytical gaze. It seems the misgiving that always flickers in those eyes on and off never truly leaves, but after a moment, then another, he slowly nods and shrugs in a stark imitation of his more outgoing public demeanor.

"Fair enough, Blake. But you know I'll need to find him, and the bomb he claims to have, as soon as possible. The time for sneaking around and playing it careful has long since passed." He taps his arm in thought. "Does he have a bomb?"

Blake chugs the rest of his coffee, nearly burning his throat.

"No clue."

When they all finish eating (Harleen and Selina are both more than a little drunk at this point and decide to retire early) he takes him out of the makeshift dining hall and throughout the cold, gaping tunnels that make up the cave. It's not long before he's in one of what seems like a dozen rooms -- this one is jet-black from top-to-bottom, with only a light right in the middle. He gets the feeling there's more beneath the surface, but doesn't feel like pushing his luck with endless questions.

"It's a camera." Bruce says after he comes back out -- there's something on the tip of his finger, but he can barely see it. "A new model. Use it to give me some insider information on the League. The weapons they're using, their base, whatever you can."

His mind ticks away at each second as he tries to come up with some excuse as to why he can't go through with _this_ , either, but even his efficient half-lies have him running dry. He can't exactly turn this down. Not without sacrificing his already tenuous benefit of the doubt.

"Don't worry." Bruce responds smoothly, misinterpreting his hesitation. "It won't be detectable by the majority of sensors. It can blend into any surface. The League is well-equipped, but I try to keep myself updated. You can also thank my friend Fox for that. We'll put it on your jacket when you leave tomorrow. Now do me a favor and at least _try_ to get some rest."

' _Thanks, Bruce._ ' Blake thinks, torn between fascination at the technology his eyes can barely pick up on and growing apprehension as to all the things that could go wrong. ' _That's great. Fantastic, even. Let's hope it's not good enough to fool Bane._ '

Alfred shifts from foot-to-foot in the doorway. He looks agitated, again, but Blake can't pin down why for the life of him. Honestly, the man has looked off the entire time he's known him, but then again, he _did_ just learn that his ward had all but come back from the dead during one of the city's next great crises.

"When you get back..." Bruce nods at his person when he makes his way back to the med bay. "...let's talk about training you properly."

Blake is sure he's joking, but his serious tone suggests nothing of the sort.

The fact of the matter is that they needed to work together. He also knew Bane and Bruce would rather beat the shit out of each other once they crossed paths again. With Scarecrow and Talia and the alligator man and _god_ knows how many lackeys taking advantage of the chaos...he _had_ to make this work.

Or Gotham was more fucked than they knew.

\--

It's a long night at the Batcave.

He doesn't sleep yet, though. There was no way he could, in the aftermath of all that's happened. Checking his phone's missed messages is going to tear him up. Masturbation is _definitely_ not an option, partially because it'd be to images of Bane and partially because he's _pretty_ sure Bruce has hidden cameras layered into every inch of the place. Drinking sounds nice, but he wasn't about to pester the clearly overworked butler.

So he just gets up and walks around. Around and around in a loop that doesn't connect in any particular fashion, listening to his soft steps on the stone floor and trying to soothe down his anxiety. The painkillers keep the pain from chomping too badly into his muscle, though he knows he'll regret this midnight stroll come morning.

It's a beautiful place, if he's being completely honest. It reminds him a little of Bane's second hideout. The one all the way out in the mountains on Gotham's southern border. It's a striking thought how similar and different both men are. Their fighting styles (to an extent, anyway), their sense of justice, even losing family at a young age. His gut tugs at this realization further, telling him he's onto something, but he'll be damned if he knows what it is. He decides to mull over it later when Alfred intercepts him.

"Sir...ahem...Blake." He's wearing a button-up, still, but with a pair of jeans and _slightly_ less shiny shoes. Hopefully the poor sap didn't have to tend to Bruce while sleepwalking.

"It's just too formal." Blake says, almost smiling. He didn't mind the man at all. There was a sincerity that he felt himself warming up to naturally. Even if he played a hand in him being wrestled somewhere else, yet again, against his will. "Blake's fine."

"Well, then. Blake. Let me show you something, while we're both trying to chip away at our insomnia."

He takes him back to that jet-black room Bruce had dipped into earlier. Alfred beckons him inside, then touches something on the wall. Like a Rubik's Cube everything starts to shift and fold from the bottom up. Lights blink on below his feet. Shelves push out of the walls. The entire place is morphing before his eyes. He wasn't just right -- he was spot _on_. It's an armory.

"I mean no disrespect to your position when I say this, but the League Of Shadows is not to be trifled with. Even one led by someone who was excommunicated years ago." Alfred says, walking through and gesturing around him. "Take one of these with you."

He's still trying to place his guilt, but the trail is muddled. The man could just very well be old and tired and feeling like shit after getting involved with yet another Gotham conspiracy.

"Is Bruce okay with this?"

"He has more than enough to spare. Especially after throwing you in the Bat without an explanation." Alfred adds, a touch slyly. It's not a _denial_ , no, but he figures it's at least worth a look.

He has to stop himself from almost drooling at the weapons on display. They're not just state-of-the-art. They're _works_ of art. Guns, knives, armor, gloves, goggles. Some are clearly prototypes, weapons that wouldn't be out of place in a designer magazine, all sleek silhouettes beneath glass so clean they would be transparent if not for the dazzling sheen that plays back and forth with every step he takes.

After glancing to Alfred for one more confirmation Blake reaches into one of the boxes and takes out a long pocket knife, even as his fingers itch with the knowledge he's touching something so polished with his bare hands. He flicks it in and out, without even a _hint_ of noise. Flips it into the air and catches it by the handle. It's hardy, but lightweight. Alfred nods his approval.

He peers at a long, flat rifle. He remembers seeing a glimpse of it on one of the _many_ scattered videos of Batman's exploits around the city. It emitted some sort of pulse when pressed, enough to disable the cellphones and hardware of everyone nearby. He looks at a grappling gun, deceptively simple, then what seems to be a damaged pair of gauntlets. From the looks of it, his current suit wasn't in the room.

"He prefers to keep it outside." Alfred says, reading him easily.

Blake nods, idly, minding his limp as he meanders over every weapon and tool in turn...until one, in particular, makes him freeze in place. 

It's a pole. A sleek black, matte and deceptively soft to the touch. He reaches out, then pauses and glances to Alfred. The butler nods. Blake picks it up and weighs it experimentally in his hand. It's just a little shorter than he is. Not a bad size, no. He starts to tap it and twist it, curious what other secrets it holds.

He jerks back in alarm when it extends and becomes a good few feet longer in a blink.

"...Woah."

He fiddles with it. Twists it again. It doesn't respond. Figures. A minor change _shouldn't_ mess with its shape -- during the heat of battle that would just be asking for trouble. He twists it once, twice, three times. Suddenly it shrinks in a blink. Shorter than his forearm, enough that he could hide it in his coat pocket and look unobtrusive.

"If I may, Blake..." Alfred says, a touch of eagerness cutting into his mannerly candor. "What made the pole catch your eye?"

"I grew up in a few different orphanages." Blake says, taking a few steps back from the glass so he can get into a stance -- already it feels like it's apart of him. An extension of his person. "All of them in poor or poorer neighborhoods. Street fights were our initiation, basically. One of the best things you could have was a weapon that couldn't let you down. Guns were nice, of course, but they're sloppy. Especially for kids. You could shoot yourself or kill someone you're just trying to knock out."

He twirls it over his right shoulder and around his neck to land smoothly in his left hand. Alfred actually _claps_ , looking like a proud father who just saw his kid score a winning point in soccer. Blake can't help but chuckle.

"This is flexible, but simple, you know? The fact it can change size and isn't oversensitive to minor stimuli means it could come handy in so many different pinches."

"It also has a taser."

"...No kidding?"

"Yes. One that charges naturally, though it will need a few hours to reach its full strength if it becomes depleted. It is strong enough to knock out a horse." Alfred frowns. Somehow even _that_ expression looks benign and polite. "Though you probably shouldn't use that much strength on the average mugger."

"Yeah, well." Blake mutters, thinking back to that chance encounter behind the orphanage with Finn. "That depends on the mugger."

He can feel indentations along the pole, not unlike hidden buttons beneath the thick and slightly pliant surface. He hits one and makes two thin prongs flick out and spread apart on both ends. A spark of electricity blinks between them.

" _Holy_..." He holds it out at arm's length, startled, then breathes out a quick laugh. "Damn. Batman has good taste in weapons. I think this could even make _Bane_ jealous."

"That wouldn't surprise me. They have similar tastes. I have no doubt you have already picked up on this." Alfred says. It was starting to get a little creepy how canny the man was. "They are both idealistic and brash, willing to die for what they believe in. Perhaps all of you are." He pauses, then shakes his head in apology. "Excuse me. That is not something I imagine you want to hear, given your position..."

' _No...no, I think you're warmer than you know._ ' Blake thinks, a thread of uneasiness working its way through his rare cheer. ' _We're all stuck in ideological limbo and Gotham's what we're floating in._ '

"Do you know Bane?" Blake asks.

"No, and for that I am grateful."

"It seems he and Batman have more history than what's on the surface."

"You're sharp. Yes, from what he has told me they met a few times in the League back when he trained under Ra's al Ghul nearly ten years ago. So much had changed in-between now and then Bruce hadn't even known of their past familiarity until well _after_ Bane established himself here." He grows thoughtful. "He...was a different man. Someone who was always seen with a little girl by his side...Ra's' daughter, I believe."

"And Bane was...excommunicated?" Blake asks. "Years later. Do you know for what, specifically?"

"Unfortunately, no, but it's unlikely for anything good. A man too extreme for Ra's al Ghul..." Alfred doesn't finish. Blake feels a protective spark flicker through him.

"...and Bruce killed him." He replies. "Ra's."

"He didn't...well. I suppose, yes."

"But he gave _me_ flack for killing someone who'd already tried to kill me twice."

Alfred sighs. Even in his indignation, Blake can't help but feel a little sympathy for the weary old man.

"...Bruce has struggled with the ideology he represents and how applicable that ideology is in people's everyday lives. He considers himself the other extreme to Gotham. The hope to the city's pessimism. The peace to its violence. Please try to be understanding when he tries to hold everyone he comes across to that fantasy. He forgets, sometimes, that he's only human."

Blake stares at him for a long time. He looks down at the pole in his hand. With a quick tap he shrinks it down to a small size, then turns and limps out of the armory.

"Thanks for the gift, Alfred."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _Chase a lie and stop your doubt._ "
> 
> I'm starting to see a lot of wisdom in this song lyric from FKA Twigs' 'Two Weeks'.


	49. Something More

He's endlessly relieved when Barsad has the same number he contacted him with a few weeks back. Then he's horrified when he remembers he actually has to go through with his crazy plan.

" _We rotate through numbers until they're no longer good. Saves us work while keeping us hard to locate. I would have called to check in on you, anyway._ ' He adds, with his rare sly humor, before his voice shutters into his more typical disaffected Russian drawl. " _I have a location. Do not be late._ "

Blake had wavered back and forth on this plan the rest of the night and throughout the morning. Over the nice breakfast of sausage and eggs that he could barely even touch. He even thought about abandoning it entirely, tearing off the camera the second he was out of the Batcave and just returning to Bane with no strings attached. But an opportunity presented itself sometime at three in the morning while he drifted in and out of sleep and it was something he couldn't ignore.

Gotham was a wreck. No...no, it was worse. It was a hell of a lot worse. A wreck could be _salvaged_. Somehow, despite all that he's been through, he knows the city was prepared to sink lower before it ever got its head back above water. They needed to work together.

Bruce, Bane, Selina, Harleen, Alfred. They needed to combine their skills to find Talia, Crane and whoever else they had working under them. Bane's bomb seems almost pedestrian in light of the clash of egos that would no doubt come to a head otherwise. They were going to fight. There was no doubt about it. Even though Bruce believed his story, he still was entirely convinced Bane was the ultimate threat to the city. And Bane? He _loathed_ Bruce.

If Blake could somehow get Bane to remove the body camera without outright _telling_ him (which was a feat in of itself) he would be kept in Bruce's good graces a little while longer. It would buy Blake just enough time to convince them _both_ to pool their resources and collaborate long enough to get the immediate threats out of the way. Before what happened at Old Gotham and The Narrows (and what _could've_ happened with Talia) repeats itself...with no second-chances.

What Bane and Bruce would do _afterwards_ , well...he'd worry about that if he ever got that far.

He stares out the window the entire drive down. Communicating as much as he can, non-verbally, to discourage Barsad from inadvertently sharing anything that could give Batman an edge. The mercenary first had first asked him how he was doing, his tone almost warm, only to grow quiet when Blake gave him nothing but curt answers.

He's grateful (and more than a little somber) when the mercenary takes the hint and turns on the radio to fill the silence. He flips through stations until they land on soft rock, something that almost fills the small space with a more relaxed mood. They travel throughout areas of Gotham even he hasn't frequented all that much -- passing by half-finished buildings in the spacious, thinly-occupied construction sites that made up a lot of the eastern border.

Just like he wasn't sure if he wanted Bane to wake up, he's not sure if he wants to see him.

How could he? Even with his head scrambled like an egg he couldn't forget how utterly _alien_ Bane had become in the weeks he'd been gone. When he'd fought Batman...it was like he was an entirely different person. It was what Blake had always _expected_ to see coming out at the _least_ expected time.

Blake's mind, like usual, hammers the truth when denial threatens to take over. No...no, he'd always been that way.

Bane simply hid it or brushed it under the rug when it dared to peek out. Whenever Batman (or Bruce) was mentioned he would get in this...mood. Terse, a little on-edge, but held back with _just_ enough dark humor to seem reasonable. Blake knew there was something simmering beneath the surface -- hell, he'd even called him out on it once -- but the masked man was like a dragon on a hoard of gold when it came to his secrets.

For someone that had been so proud at having toppled the mythical dark knight, he'd been strangely tight-lipped about the fact he cracked his back and dumped him in his childhood home (or, rather, hole) for months. Even the mercenaries didn't talk about it, not even Salim who originally clued Blake in that Bruce was still alive. It was something Blake thought too cruel, even for _him_...and he'd seen him personally kill one of his own people for desertion.

Blake had looked up to the Batman as a symbol of hope. Who didn't? That was the _point_. But the veneer had cracked the day Bane had read aloud Gordon's letter and revealed a few ugly truths, even though anyone could've just assumed he was making it up to stir up shit. Blake had just gotten got lucky and actually had Gordon confirm it to his face in the man's own home.

Batman had taken wrongful blame for Dent's murder, left Crane at the mercy of a bad system, then retreated into his riches as Gotham continued to bury itself to choking under a mound of falsehoods. Blake had let his fantasy get the best of him. He admitted it.

Actually sitting and talking with the guy, nothing like that short-yet-vulnerable chat they had all those months back when he was still wearing that damned uniform, well...he _also_ got to find out that Bruce was a paranoid and entitled prick. He snatched him up, shoved him off on his butler, then demanded a bunch of answers. If Blake hadn't already been whet on an appetite of one disappointment after another, he might've been bummed out.

But did he seriously deserve _that?_

Barsad glances sideways at Blake when he rubs his temples with both hands. Bane has killed _goodness_ knows how many people. He knows this. He's seen it. Almost was on the receiving end of it, all hail solid first impressions. Even then, Blake felt stuck in this uneasy tug-of-war between them, appreciating but not biting on Batman's no-killing rule but shying back from Bane's tendency for toying and torture.

It clashes so strangely with the steady memories he's built with the man over the months. Like how gently he held Joel's hand at his birthday party.

After what seems like hours Barsad finally pulls to a stop and makes an off-hand remark on how it's been a while since he's driven a car, stepping out and rolling his neck for emphasis. There are a handful of mercenaries lounging or standing not too far away amid a cluster of dark vans -- even the ones without anything immediate to do are talking in hushed tones, gesturing animatedly over an important detail or another.

Bane is sitting in the open back of one of the vans, leaning on his elbows and listening to them speak with his hands folded before him. He's wearing his black leather jacket and dark jeans, suggesting he recently got back from a ride. His knuckles are visibly reddened and swollen, even at a distance, and there's a shadow of a bruise beneath his left eye. He knows _that_ one, at least, was left by Batman.

Over the past day and half Blake had been angry. Then empty. Then lost. Seeing Bane in person...he feels the faintest twinge of hope. Even mixing with what Bruce told him, what Alfred told him, what he was going to have to _do_ in just a matter of seconds, he holds onto it like a lifeline. 

The masked man looks up from the talk when Blake walks into the small clearing. His heart twists hard at the pleasant surprise that stiffens the man's posture, then it all but _hurts_ at the affectionate warmth that glows in his eyes.

"Bane." He calls out, as much to hurry through the awkwardness as to nip that painful affection in the bud before he loses his nerve entirely. "Good to see you in one piece."

It's a little _too_ open of a greeting. Not at all how he would've done, even with his dry demeanor. He can see the first flicker of suspicion on Bane's face, then and there. Then his eyes slowly narrow. Well, that didn't take long. Unease needles up Blake's spine, but he keeps his voice level.

"Gotta say, I'm glad to be here. Batman was a little suspicious, but I figure that's par for the course." Blake continues with a laugh that he hopes doesn't sound as fake as he feels.

"Yes, the dark knight has good reason to second-guess the shadows he's attempted to lay claim to." Bane responds, deceptively civil. "What did you tell him while in his care?"

"Not a thing."

He hopes omitting the dark knight's real name was a clue that something was up. Bane knew his secret identity -- hell, he knew Bruce _before_ he was Batman -- and Bane knew that _he_ knew. But Bane is watching him much like he did when they had fought for the first time. All the way down in the storm drains when Blake had barely clawed his way out of being sucked into the roaring waters only to find out it was the least of his problems.

Like he's about to be snuffed out.

" _I hope I don't regret this._ " He thinks as the man leans both hands on his knees and slowly rises to his feet. " _God, I hope I don't regret this._ "

"I hope not." Bane murmurs in an unconscious mockery of his racing thoughts. His mercenaries have also gotten to their feet, moving surreptitiously to either side of him in a malicious shuffle. Before Blake knows it he's surrounded. "That just wouldn't do."

Bane snaps his fingers. Blake is suddenly held firm by both his arms. He struggles, just a little, testing his boundaries.

"Hey- _ow_ -what are you doing?" He snaps, trying to sound indignant and, damn, even his own voice is starting to fool him. "I _told_ you, I didn't tell him a thing. Get _off_ -"

"But have you led him right to us?" He glances at Barsad as he looms above Blake in a massive shadow. The mercenary turns his face away, shamefully. "I can practically smell your guilt, detective."

' _Oh, shit. Maybe. He said it was just a camera, but who knows what else this thing can do, with the money and resources he has._ ' He thinks wildly as he's patted down from head-to-toe -- along his thighs, his stomach, along his chest where the tiny device is nestled almost invisibly. ' _Eat your heart out, Bruce. Even I'm not sure if he really thinks I just sold him out-_ '

The man on his left shoves him down onto the ground. He barely manages to hold back a howl of pain when he smacks his right knee into the dirt and pain lances up his entire right side. Bane immediately grabs him by the back of his collar and yanks him onto his feet again, as easy as if he were picking up a doll. _Fuck_ , the man was strong. Then he starts patting him down, quick and efficient.

"Bane, Bane, listen-" Blake starts, only to grimace when the hand on his jacket moves to his hair and twists. The stitches pull. Barely.

" _Hush_." Bane soothes.

Before he can blink Barsad is over with a small detector in his hand, waving it up and down his person. Blake risks a glance at him (he hopes he doesn't look desperate, but he knows he does) and his face could've been carved out of stone. One-by-one the second-in-command relieves him of his weapons. He takes out his boot knife first (he's almost surprised, then he realizes they probably had something similar). Pistol. Wallet.

Then Barsad pulls the pole out of his inner jacket pocket and peers curiously at it. Bane immediately holds out his hand -- Blake thinks he could shrivel into a ball at the sheer hate that dawns across his face when he realizes what it is.

The detector is back. While it flickers every time he moves it lower, it's unreliable and brief.

"Is that all?" Bane asks. Blake's heart palpitates when Barsad nods. "For your sake...I hope it is."

' _Okay. Bruce said it wouldn't be picked up by most sensors. No clue why it reacted like that near my side when the camera's on my chest, but. That's fine. That's fine. They'll figure it out, I'm sure, they've seen every trick in the book, they have to know._ ' He thinks. ' _Barsad, I'm so sorry._ '

Barsad mutters what sounds like a question in Russian. Bane responds back, a tumble of words that would be beautiful if not for the anger undercutting them. He then nods curtly and holds out an imperious hand. One of his men hands him a knife. In one smooth movement the rest take a few collective steps back and avert their gaze.

Oh, no. Oh, _shit_. He knows what this is.

"You made a mockery of our trust." Bane murmurs as he drags the tip of the blade down his cheek with a feather-light touch. "Of _my_ trust."

"No, no, I haven't." Blake's voice trembles with more authenticity than he could ever hope for it to have when Bane holds the tip just centimeters away from his face. "I'm telling you the truth. What are you doing?"

"My good man." Bane says, as jovial as if he's just completed the punchline to a joke. "I'm correcting a mistake."

Blake crushes his eyes shut when he pushes the blade into his chest.

...then slowly opens one. Then the other. Then he's blinking away stars as Bane takes the knifepoint and flicks the tiny camera off the front of his coat. It glints in the air for one breathless moment, then he catches it between two fingers and forethumb, crushes it and tosses it into the fire behind him.

"He is not watching anymore." Bane says, nodding at one of the men somewhere beyond Blake's line of sight before looking back down at him. "You can breathe now."

"...Oh." Blake breathes as Bane's grip on his jacket transforms into a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Oh, thank _fuck_."

"Thank fuck?" Bane repeats, eyes glittering with amusement. For all his casual brutality, Blake can't recall the last time he actually heard the man curse. "I don't believe I've heard of that god."

"Okay, piss _off_. For a second I thought you were seriously going to stab me." He's dizzy with relief and just a little bit giddy, like he's just smoked five cigarettes in one gulp. "You could've given me a sign or _something_ that you knew I was bullshitting."

"That would have tampered with the illusion." Bane almost looks pleased, but in a flash his gaze becomes hard and scrutinizing. "Your leg. Let me see."

It hurts like hell after hitting the ground. Every throb of his heart feels triples it in the worst way, pounding agony complaining up and down his side and leg in a consistent beat.

"Don't worry about that." He says, tightly, standing with most of his weight on his uninjured leg. "Listen, I would've come here sooner but I had to put on one hell of an act to keep him from turning me in outright. Bruce put the camera on me because I fed him a false story about-"

"I will have your leg inspected first." Bane interjects, smoothly. "Then you may tell me what's going on."

Blake opens his mouth to argue...then just stares. It's too much. Bane had trusted him, implicitly, and he is _still_ putting his well-being first. Now that he thinks about it, he had pulled him back up immediately after he was pushed onto the ground. Blake thought he was manhandling him to fool the camera, but, no. He was just surprised to see him injured.

Like an inferno a swell of emotion overcomes him, sudden and all-encompassing. Without thinking Blake flings his arms around Bane's shoulders and hugs him as tight as he can.

"... _Ah._ " Bane says.

There's something about being separated for weeks and going through yet another death-defying experience that makes him feel so much more incredible. He's solid as a rock beneath his arms, coat still damp from the morning fog. Blake pushes his nose -- no, _burrows_ \-- it into the man's jacket collar and takes in a deep breath of all those scents he misses so badly. Freshly turned soil from the rain. The artificial tang of military hardware. A touch of Earl Grey.

He doesn't want to let go for a hundred damn years.

A polite cough, then another, jolts him back to reality. Blake stiffens with the realization and slowly pulls back to look around him. Bane's mercenaries are all staring in their messy semi-circle (with one particularly swarthy fellow outright _slack-jawed_ ). He can spot Salim further in the group with a hand over his mouth. Barsad is looking at a leaf on a branch with conspicuous interest.

"...Oh." A warm flush creeps over his skin. The sound of a bird chirping in the distance is as loud as a car alarm in the silence. "Shit."

Barsad suddenly barks out an order. Everyone immediately snaps to attention. One-by-one they turn away and get back to their duties. Bane puts a hand on the small of his back and nudges him toward one of the vans. He doesn't look at him. Quietly mortified, Blake concedes that this reunion went much better and much worse than originally planned as he limps inside and lays himself back on a pull-out cot.

"I got shot in the hip and thigh by Foley." He explains. "While you were knocked out. Bruce's butler patched me up at his hideout, but he said the damage will probably be permanent. As in, I'll have a limp to work around." He tries to put on a smile, but it wilts. "At least I still have a leg, huh?"

"Of course. Barsad still would have done a superior job." Bane huffs. Barsad nods in agreement as he runs two delicate fingers where the stitches rest beneath the bandages. Blake might be imagining it, but he looks a touch smug.

"I mean, the stitches are decent enough." Blake says as Barsad continues to investigate his hip with quick and careful hands. "I don't see the need to redo them-"

"There is a tracking device inside you." He says, calmly, and reaches for a pair of scissors. "I had originally wondered if our detector was malfunctioning, but-"

"Wait, _what?_ "

"Don't worry." Barsad snaps on a pair of gloves. "It's not deep. It was likely not meant to last very long." His voice suddenly darkens as he starts to numb the area with a cotton pad. "We can't afford to miss these hidden details, unfortunately. Give me but a minute."

Blake looks at Bane wordlessly, who just tilts his head in his own version of a shrug. Like it's not entirely creepy and invasive. Alfred's guilty face flashes in his mind -- he was the one that operated him. Then the weapon he gave him behind Bruce's back, he had felt like the old man was apologizing for something. ...Oh.

"If there is anything I can say about the man, it's that he's..." Bane's arms are crossed over his broad chest and his expression is unreadable, even more so with the aid of his twisted mask. This minor compliment seems to take him some effort. "... _thorough_."

"You don't say. _Ow_." Barsad's blue eyes flick up to him apologetically and he dabs a little more of the numbing solution onto his skin. "So...how'd you know I was lying?" He asks, trying to relax even as he can _feel_ the mercenary moving a pair of tweezers inside him.

"You've never been a very good liar." Bane responds.

"I think the right answer is 'Because I trust you, John'."

"I thought that was obvious." Bane picks up the pole from where it lays on one of the pull-out tables. "A parting gift..." He murmurs, twirling it between his fingers with enviable ease. "...I presume?"

Bane starts to inspect it more thoroughly, expression flickering between distaste and a growing curiosity. He taps it, then feels along it gingerly. The man doesn't even flinch when he twists it and it suddenly expands.

"His butler gave it to me." Blake says, watching as he twists it again and shrinks it back down. His knowledge of weapons was stunning to witness, sometimes. "Alfred."

Barsad holds up the tracking device, glinting bloodily in the light, like a trophy.

"Done."

Once the tracking device is out they have to leave immediately -- they couldn't risk Batman rushing to his rescue (however unlikely, as whether or not he was fooled is still up in the air) with unexpected reinforcements. The League had taken a few more losses from the protests and, while their numbers (or training) were far from negligible, they weren't about to get unnecessarily risky.

None of the mercenaries seem the least bit perturbed by this new development, as they start filling up the vans, stepping onto their motorcycles or simply walking out of the space in pairs. Indeed, they always seemed ready to get up and leave at a moment's notice. Blake remains in the back of the van he's in with Barsad and a few others as they pull out.

They reach their new location in what seems like no time at all...and it's not because he tried to catch twenty winks while listening to the mercenaries play cards.

He's startled at the sight of trees when he steps outside again. It was easy to forget Gotham _had_ the damn things sometimes. With so much nature, they were likely near the southern border again. Not too far from their back-up hideout, it seems.

"I'm going to go get some air." He tells Barsad when he limps outside. While he's not lying, he doesn't feel any particular need to specify that he also wants a little alone time with Bane. "I just...need to move around."

Barsad frowns. Blake purses his mouth in a childish pout. Barsad rolls his eyes.

"Very well." Blake can tell he's not happy about it, but he respects his decision. Bane puts a gentle hand beneath his elbow, urging him to follow, and starts walking toward the forest that surrounds them. The numbing effect Barsad applied hasn't worn off yet, but it would only be a matter of time.

The camp disappears beneath the thicket as they move along an old and neglected trail. Blake opens his mouth to apologize -- he knows he wanted to keep their relationship secret, he was just overwhelmed -- then he slowly shuts it when he catches Bane's expression.

He's smiling. A gentle crinkle that lifts up the corners of his eyes and makes him look almost young.

"John..." He says with a slow shake of his head. "...you are full of surprises."

"Like tracking devices?" Blake can't help but snort.

Bane arches an eyebrow. "That...would be rather low on the list."

"You are, too. Full of surprises, that is. You really scared me back there. I thought I wouldn't be able to help you in time." Blake says. He can hear Joel's voice in his mind. A tiny, ironic echo. ' _I thought you were gonna die.'_

"Your timing was impeccable, really." Bane looks ahead at something, smoothly enough, though he can tell by now he's just trying to avoid eye contact. "I would have been in a poor spot had you not intervened. What you saw in the library was...a form of withdrawal. I am addicted to the substance." His voice lowers. "I am not proud of it."

"I mean, I smoke even though I said I'd quit, like...five times." So his suspicion had been right. Blake shrugs. "I get it."

"It's not the same."

"It _is_ , Bane." He takes the edge off his voice -- he doesn't want to sound accusing. "We both think we need it. We both _don't_ need it. But we keep coming back to it because everything's crap."

It's not eloquent, but it's honest. It's enough. An argument starts to brood in his eyes, threatening to come out as a more elegant (and probably _way_ more arrogant) rebuttal. Instead Bane concedes the point with a moody huff. Neither agreeing or disagreeing.

"You pieced it together." He says instead. A flicker of dark anger passes over Bane's expression, but he can tell it's not directed at him. "How?"

"I just figured it out...?" Blake offers, hesitantly.

"How did you do so while Bruce was present?" Bane clarifies. "I imagine he would have taken umbrage with your decision."

"Selina showed up. Uh, Selina Kyle. She stopped Batman from...well...stopping me." Bane just stares at him blankly. "...The Cat."

_Now_ his eyes glint with recognition. Blake remembers the mingled loathing and fear that was in Selina's eyes when she looked at the masked man, even as he was passed out and the furthest thing possible from a threat. The reaction had seemed completely out-of-place on a face that was usually disinterested, wry or both. He doesn't want any more ugly truths, but he's too far in to back out now.

"Do you...know her?" Blake asks, tentatively. They've arrived in a little area surrounded by trees. The babble of a brook plays not too far away. Bane situates himself on the least-mossy part of a large rock and leans his elbows on his knees. He gestures for Blake to sit, too, but he's way too wound up.

"No." He responds, clicking his tongue exasperatedly when Blake continues to stand. "But we had met before."

"Bruce implied you hurt her."

"I never lay a hand on her." Bane raises his eyebrows. "Merely informed her of the consequences should she stand between me and Gotham's progress."

"So...you threatened to kill her."

"Yes."

" _Damn_ it, Bane." He sighs and scrubs at his brows -- it's more than just exasperation at this point. He feels like every new thing he learns pulls the rug out from under him. "This isn't how you create allies."

"I am not here to make nice." Bane snorts, the dismissive sound distorted through the mask. "I am here for change. Now, what _did_ you tell him?"

"The best possible lie I could. It wasn't easy." Blake swallows the rough patch in his throat and muscles through. "He saw me...kill Foley. Only reason he didn't straight-up turn me in was because it was in self-defense, but he wasn't happy about it. At least I got the fucker back." He mutters. "It'll be hard for him to run the city into the ground when he's _in_ the ground."

Bane nods once, approving. At least _one_ person didn't think he was a piece of shit for defending himself. Even if it was the one who treated murder with the same approach one would take to dirty dishes.

"And you suffered a camera on your person because...?" Bane presses. He doesn't mention the tracking device. It was clear Blake had no clue it was there. Again, he deeply appreciates Bane's trust in him.

"He wouldn't have let me leave otherwise." He wonders if he should elaborate on the fact Batman admitted to wanting to mentor him. Probably not. Bane has been clearly holding back on this touchy subject, because his fingers are twitching in that way he does when his temper is running on thin ice.

"Lofty ideals." Bane mutters. "From his lofty tower."

"I guess. Fuck, I don't know. I'm just...I'm tired of it." Bane looks back to him, expression quirked quizzically. Blake bobs his injured leg for emphasis. "Tired of this. Getting hurt. Waking up in places I don't know. I woke up in an alleyway in East End a few weeks ago, then I woke up in the goddamn Batcave a few days ago. Hell, I met _you_ after getting clocked in the head." He snorts. "I don't even know which one of your guys did that."

"Barsad." Bane clarifies, politely.

Blake laughs, but it feels as dry as his throat. Bane doesn't say anything else, knitting his fingers together and watching him patiently.

"Yeah? Okay. _Great_. All my new pals lately have beat the shit out of me, one way or another." Bane's expression becomes a little troubled at that. It should calm him down, seeing the man's empathy on full display. Instead he gets more incensed.

"What the hell is this all for, anyway? Reilly told me some serious shit could happen if I kept going down this route and it _did_ and I _still_ ran off to The Reckoning. I'm a piece of shit, you know. Made Joel cry. Got Finn mad at me. A real piece of shit. ...Who hasn't even quit smoking." He laughs. " _That_ should've been the easiest thing in this shitstorm."

He stops himself there. He doesn't want to start apologizing, however indirectly, for rushing to Bane's rescue. If he hadn't taken the chance and found him at the library...shit, he doesn't even want to think about it. But his mind is on emotional auto-pilot now, so he thinks about it _anyway_ , seeing vivid images in his head of Bane being tied up, if not shot outright by some glory hound. He tries to focus on anything else, looking beyond the trees at the mountains in the distance.

"...Damn it." Blake says when Bane still doesn't speak. He probably thinks he's acting like a scared little boy. "Just...say something, would you."

"You have been through a lot." Bane says, and somehow that simple sentence cuts through him and makes him want to fall apart. "You have a right to be angry."

"I...I am." Blake whispers, half-wondering. "Can't remember a time I haven't been, if I'm being honest."

"You are happy with your boys." Bane offers.

"Well." That only makes him grimace. "...Not like I'll be able to see them. Not after what I did..."

"Come now. They are alive and well. This is enough." Just like his prior comment had shocked him, this one suddenly sets him off. Blake clenches his fists.

"Look, you don't _get_ it." He hisses furiously. "That's not even close to enough. They need me around and I fucked that up!"

"I do get it, John." Bane growls. "I get it _quite_ well."

Blake glares. Bane returns it easily, a wide-eyed and angry stare that _dares_ him to continue his train of thought. Ugly sentiments bubble to the surface, a belligerent boil that shakes him from head-to-toe. He wants to scream, " _Do you? Because you fucked up even worse than I did and now I have to protect myself, them, **everyone** , from her. None of this would have happened if you and that fur-wearing psychopath had stayed a thousand miles away from Gotham._"

"I know what you want to say." Bane says, soft voice somehow as sharp as a knife. "Why don't you speak your mind?"

"What? That if I had just taken that god _damn_ voice clip to Waller and got Talia sent to prison for attempted murder none of this would have happened?" He almost spits. "Never even crossed my mind, Bane."

"That is little more than supposition. There is no guarantee Waller would not have had an ulterior motive, considering her position in a corrupt intelligence agency." The masked man responds, infuriatingly smooth, and Blake wants to sock him. "I, at least, was plain in my intent."

" _Really?_ " Bane's shoulders bristle when he laughs. "Because I'm learning a _lot_ of fun new things about you that weren't very plain at all. Like how you threw Bruce Wayne into your childhood home after snapping his back, even though I asked you, repeatedly, what the _hell_ was up with you two. All the people you hold hostage in that pit like your own personal prison. Oh, then you threatened Selina?"

He knows he's being a raging hypocrite, when he had her jailed all those months back for petty theft, but he's too furious to care. It's like his anger is a rollercoaster and he's just along for the ride.

"I didn't get there when you were knocked out, Bane. I got there while you two were still fighting and you clearly have a _problem_. I'm going to level with you here. You scared the shit out of me."

It's the closest Bane comes to looking a little alarmed, as fleeting as a blink, but he takes it as a sign to plow mercilessly forward.

"I've never seen you fight anyone like _that_. It's like you lost your damn mind. I have no idea where your fucking grudge is going to lead us, I just know it won't be anywhere good." He's shaking uncontrollably, not helped by the pain starting to seep back into his hip. "Why didn't you tell me you threw him in a pit with a broken back? That you were excommunicated? Why are you so secretive around _me_ , of all people?"

"Your idolatry of the Batman would have blurred your common sense...that of which seems compromised right now." Bane responds, acidly. Blake stiffens in anger and jabs a finger at him.

"Did you even come to Gotham to help?" He snaps. "Or was it to just prove some weird point to Bruce Wayne?"

Now it's Bane's turn to look shocked. If shocked were ten times more dangerous. It takes him a moment to answer, somehow terribly long and brief, and every millisecond in-between makes the already charged air between them that much closer to a fever pitch.

"...You have seen my results." His sullen tone is jarring from the cold arrogance from before. "What does it matter?"

"It _does_ matter. It matters because Gotham has been used as everyone's goddamn pawn on the board and we're all sick of it. Bruce and Gordon using Dent's death as an excuse to change _nothing_ , Foley's endless power-grabbing, Waller's slippery PR bullshit. We're low on some sincerity, Bane. We've been _real_ low for a long damn time. So, yes. It matters."

"I have always wanted to help cultivate a better world. One that would never create a prison that would keep _children_ inside. I've come to terms with the cost of that." Bane growls. "Even when we first met...I knew Bruce was yet another proverbial tumor to snip away."

"So half of what you do is out of the goodness of your heart and the other half is out of a decades-old grudge to a playboy billionaire." Blake seethes. "How noble of you."

He watches the play of emotions on Bane's face. First a growing outrage that makes his entire body as still as the rock he's sitting on. Then resentment. Then something cold. A little too cold to easily describe.

"What did he _do_ , Bane?" Blake presses. He doesn't even realize that he's walked closer, now just a few feet away from the man and just few feet from starting a fight he knows he'll regret. "You're still not answering my question. You're still covering up with all your flowery words and speeches. I know it's more personal than that. I'm a goddamn detective _and_ your...boyfriend or _whatever_ the hell I am to you."

"You're letting your emotions run away with you."

"Yeah, because you've never done _that_ , before."

"What do you _want_ from me, John Blake?"

"I want to make sure you're not a complete fucking _lunatic!_ " He realizes he's yelling and cuts himself off, abruptly, when the trees seem to throw his own voice back at him.

Bane suddenly rises to his feet. Blake actually takes a step back, even though he knows it's a _stupid_ impulse, from the feral look in his eyes.

"You think me a lunatic _now_? After _all_ this." His voice is only so soft when he's truly on the verge of something terrible. "I hope the truth has not lost so much appeal for you, and you do not yearn for a tender divulgence on the sincerity of my character."

It's like when they first met in that dark stone cell. He's just standing, but the death in his voice is as real as a hand around his throat.

"...You know, I killed my first man when I was around Joel's height. A prisoner from the pit." Bane says when he doesn't speak. "When my mother died and there was nobody to shield me from him he tried to take advantage of me. He bled out on the floor after I dug a sharp stone into his carotid artery..." He holds up two fingers to the thick muscles cording his neck in a mockery of checking his pulse. "Luck had been my first teacher, but one I would graduate from _very quickly._ "

Blake grinds his teeth together, wearing down the words before they can spill out.

"Would you like to know my achievements in the past six months alone?" He continues, voice scraping brutally with every other syllable. "My men and myself tore a plane in half in midair. In order to kidnap and hold hostage a world-famous scientist with the rest of the world none the wiser. He has a wife and two children he will only _now_ be able to see after he converted a clean energy reactor into a bomb at my command. Barsad had volunteered to check in on them from time-to-time, this separated family, as they live a continent and a half away. Who better, truly, than someone who left behind his _own_?"

"I would have killed the scientist, too, and I will kill a thousand _more_ if that is how my hand is turned. Even though death is far too good for some." He chuckles, though it's anything but humorous. "Oh, yes! The prison doctor that was indirectly responsible for the demise of my first and dearest friend over fifteen years ago? I blinded him and have kept him _alive_ ever since, in that very same pit your naiveté could never truly acknowledge. Then, of course, my magnum opus."

He spreads out his hands. "Bruce Wayne, Gotham's tenderhearted trust fund child fighting villains with the power of a silver spoon...sent somewhere his _money_ could not follow! It would be poetic, if the pit were welcoming to anything of the sort. There is trust between us, John, even through this moment of weakness...so trust that I would do it again. Even as I am already convinced death is a superior option for his _ilk_. The English language is home to many colorful adjectives. Perhaps you could find a better one for me, detective...and I implore you to search _carefully_."

He's breathing hard, as if the anger is too much to contain. His gaze is terrible. As if it's physically holding him in place. There are a lot of frightening and ugly things tucked behind those eyes, but just like Bane, it's nothing close to the depth of what he's capable of.

He's seen better there, too.

"...You want another adjective? Fine. You're obsessed, Bane." Blake says, as everything starts to sink into place. "It'll be the end of us, if it's not the end of _you_ first."

Bane slowly lowers his arms and watches him. Then he finally breaks eye contact and, like breaking a spell, Blake steps back and away. He grips his hair, then mows his fingers through it, over and over and over again in some effort to pull him back down to earth in the sudden silence.

The trees twitch and sway in the breeze, their rustling mingling occasionally with the mask's artificial hiss and the pounding in his ears. For a long time, Bane doesn't say a thing and neither does he. The air has grown cold -- spring was finally here, but it was a Gotham spring, which meant it still felt too chilly and artificial. There's nothing to distract him or comfort him from the truth.

There was no way he could convince them both of a temporary truce. There just wouldn't be.

"You told me regrets are wind..." Bane says to his back. "...yet here you are."

' _I don't regret you, Bane._ ' He thinks. ' _This is too much. I just..._ '

"...don't know if I can do this." Blake whispers. "I really don't know if I can do this."

The ambiguous statement hangs in the air. He's starting to feel all his tenuous emotions getting kicked loose. Like dirt under his shoe it starts to fall apart in clumps, manifesting in a mess that trails longer and longer after every word. Just like a huge mess, he doesn't know where to start cleaning up first.

Eventually, Blake steals a glance over his shoulder. The anger in Bane's eyes has died down. If he weren't feeling so miserable, so utterly wretched and angry, he might be startled by the understanding he sees there.

"...I see." Bane mutters. Nothing more, nothing less.

He thinks back to when Bane watched him have a meltdown in his living room. All those months back. How, somehow, even when they were barely allies and recent enemies, he had known Bane wouldn't judge him -- he'd cried, he'd vented, he'd made himself look like a complete chump. Still the masked man had talked to him, both gentle and frank as he walked him through his small successes and major failures with the finesse of a certified therapist.

It was when he placed a hand on his cheek and offered to step out of his life for good, though, that it clicked. Bane had seen something more from him. Something more than a slot filled in his growing army. More than sex.

Something...more. What could they be, in light of all this?

He starts to chew on his lip in a fit of unsteadiness. Even with the mask and his on-and-off reticence, Bane was incredibly expressive -- his gaze flicks to his mouth and back again, brows furrowing and relaxing in clipped movements. Little flashes of emotion, like flickers of light in a thundercloud, that vanish as soon as they arrive. No doubt trying to figure out where his uncertainty is coming from.

"If you were finished with this fight..." Bane says. "...I would not stop you."

"...wait." Blake says, stunned. "...what?"

"Yes." Bane nods, immediately, as if the answer's obvious. "This journey I have taken is to help people better live their lives as _they_ see fit. To put power back in their hands. If you decide you would rather stay with your children even as your city burns, that would be a decision I could respect."

"You know, it's funny..." He can't even muster up a weak laugh. "I said...something similar to my boys. That I do what I do for them...but now I can't even see them. Not without putting them or Reilly in danger, at least."

Bane _hums_ softly. Somehow, the sound warms him. It was the noise he always made when he was thinking deeply.

"We all have periods in our lives where nothing is so smooth." He says as he rises to his feet. "When I first emerged from the pit I was horrified by...simple things. Things no reasonable person would fear. Open spaces. Thunderstorms. The feel of the grass beneath my feet. As it turns out, I had grown used to hell. One can grow used to anything. So, whatever you choose to do, never stop seeking out better."

Bane walks past him and starts to make his way down the path.

"Idle hands are the Devil's workshop." He sounds tired. "Remember that despair doesn't want you moving."

"Despair?" Blake repeats. "Depression...?"

"Call it what you will."

Even now he was like a stray cat, coming and going whenever he felt like it. Blake starts to follow as best he can, but the strain that's been crawling up his side since they got out of the van decides to triple itself then and there. He was able to ignore it before, what with all that nervous energy needing an outlet, but by the time they reach the bottom of the hill he's trembling so hard he can't stand straight.

"...John?" Bane pauses and looks over his shoulder. He cuts a striking figure down the path, a massive shadow on the blooming green as stark as a collage cut-out.

"Hold up..." Blake pants, leaning down and waiting for the world to stop swaying. "It...it just hurts." He pushes off the tree he was leaning on and tries to put weight on it, only for it to wobble terribly. Bane stalks back down the trail. "Just give me a moment to catch my breath..."

"I am expected." He says down at him. "I can carry you."

The leftover tension and his sore pride both quail at the suggestion. He looks up as best he can, still leaning against the tree. "Do I _want_ you to is the question."

To his surprise, Bane bristles visibly.

"...Very _well_."

His stomach drops when the masked man turns on one heel and goes right back down the path. Shit. Out of _all_ the times to get touchy... Impulsively he moves after him, only to grab the tree again when his swollen leg burns anew and threatens to give him a faceful of dirt.

"Damn it..." He curses under his breath, then calls out. " _Fine._ Fine. Go ahead."

He doesn't hear anything. Bane is long gone. He shoves down a lurch of self-pity and prepares himself for a long, unpleasant walk.

Then, without warning, one thick arm wraps around his torso and the other scoops beneath his knees and lifts him. Blake flails, instinctively, because it's not every day someone just picks him up like he doesn't weigh nearly 170 pounds...then he goes slack. Then the masked man sidles his way through the trees, careful not to jostle him on the low branches.

"...Thanks." Blake says as the masked man steps carefully down a slope.

"Stubborn." Bane mutters sourly over the _crunch-crunch_ of leaves. The sun flickers through the trees above, then a gap in the branches glares in a flash of white so bright it makes his eyes sting.

"...well." Blake ducks his head beneath his chin for a spot of shade. "Takes one to know one."

Bane tilts his head up, a little. To give him room.

"I'm sure."

The walk back is not nearly as long, now that he's off his feet, but he closes his eyes and enjoys a rare spot of peace anyway, swaying ever so slightly in Bane's broad arms. It feels like forever since he's just listened to birdsong and the echoing, indistinct fuzz of nature.

He expects Bane to set him down before the trees break and they make it back to the clearing where his mercenaries are sitting, smoking and talking. Maybe save a little face after that public display of affection not two or three hours ago...or the argument they just had. Instead he strolls into the developing campsite carrying him like a newly wedded bride.

Surreptitious peeks from what he can see past Bane's broad shoulder reveals the mercenaries stealing glances their way. Save for Salim, that is, who just gives him an enthusiastic thumbs-up from where he sits cross-legged atop one of the vans. Blake pretends he doesn't notice.

Bane sets him down near the small fire in the middle of the camp, carefully, and tells him he'll return soon. Blake's stomach sinks a little when he turns curtly and walks off into the cluster of trees leading into the hills without another word. He feels boneless after all that anger, but something still stings deep in his chest like a bad case of heartburn.

"Um." Blake eventually says at the eyes that turn his way. "Hey."

One of them is brewing tea. Blake's stomach rumbles plaintively, even as he wills it to shut the hell up and give him at least one moment of dignity. Without missing a beat an older, scruffy mercenary with a half-bitten cigar hanging out of his mouth starts spooning him a helping. He recognizes him. He was the guy that fed him as well as shared his cigarettes back when he was under their capture. He liked him enough, back then -- the mercenary had been dutiful and not particularly bitter or inclined toward insulting him.

Not that he could blame him if he did.

"Thanks, Food Guy." Blake says when he's given a hot bowl of food. The man grins toothily.

"Khalil."

"Thanks, Khalil."

It's simple yet hearty, some sort of beef and rice stew that tastes better with every bite, even as the heavy spices make his eyes water.

Blake huddles closer to the fire and watches as everyone moves and talks in some limbo between co-worker familiarity and family. They're treating him a little differently than before -- Food Guy (no, his name is Khalil) gives him a suspiciously large refill at his request. Another mercenary, an older woman with weathered skin, is pouring him a mug of black tea. He wonders if Barsad put them up to it.

Salim hops off the van to sit across the fire and chat. The young man is making _very_ little effort to hide how utterly thrilled he is that he and Bane are close. Although his peers give him long-suffering looks, Blake doesn't miss how they don't exactly _stop_ him from gossiping in the open. They probably wouldn't feel so positive if they knew Bane thought he was a naive douchebag.

He shoves another bite into his mouth to keep from talking.

Blake learns more about the huddle of two dozen or so mercenaries around the fire, though many more filter in and out of the camp at will over the passing minutes, then hour. Khalil had been the League's unofficial cook for the better part of three years. Made sense. Abdul used to be an interior designer, of all things, and ended up being the one everyone turned to when it was time to draft out routes and maps. Each one part of the strange, dangerous hodgepodge that made up the new League -- sometimes Bane reminded him of that old folktale about the man who could turn everything into gold with a single touch. Just like the folktale, though, such an amazing skill had a dark side.

Anarosa was the name of the woman who kept filling up his tea (someone who used to serve in the military as a translator before defecting) and it's then he realizes he hasn't run into too many women in the League.

It was strange (though not as strange as the fact it took him _this_ long for it to click, he notes with a touch of shame). Bane seemed dismissive of gender roles, at best. What with his propensity for knitting and the brutality he treated male _and_ female victims. It makes Blake think of the force. How there hadn't been a lot of women _there_ , either. Or the orphanage. It had been a traditional boy's home for decades, but it was more than once he'd considered changing that.

He wonders how it would change once Reilly handed the reins over to someone else. Someone that wasn't him, one of Gotham's many reigning fuck-ups. These depressing musings are interrupted when Salim abruptly claps him on the shoulder during a lull in the conversation.

"Crocodile Hunter is out." Salim says, cheerfully. "New name for you now."

"What? No, no, don't." Blake sputters into his drink. "Seriously-"

"I can think of a few." Barsad murmurs into his cup from where he now sits across from the fire.

"You, too?" Blake groans. Everyone laughs, then immediately starts pitching in. 'Flounder' is one's (and he knows _exactly_ what _that's_ referring to). 'The Grey Ghost' is another's. They're not all mean-spirited, though. One mercenary says 'Quick Step', in reference to his sparring capabilities -- he'd been pitted against this very fellow back when Bane wanted to keep him from, as he put it, 'withering away in his cage'.

They were _all_ still better than Hothead.

"Yes, most of us have nicknames." Khalil says, then nudges his peer. "He called _me_ Food Guy. Not very creative."

"I mean, you gave me food, but never your name." Blake responds, indignantly. "I could've called you Cigar Guy. Though I was kind of hoping to have that title myself."

"How could you be Cigar Guy when..." Khalil pinches his thumb and forefinger together in a show of the thin cigarettes Blake normally kept on his person. "So _thin._ "

"Pfft. Size isn't everything, you know." Blake counters, grinning in spite of himself.

"I am glad you come back. It is nice after..." Salim starts to add, only to trail off and picks solemnly at his food. "...well. It is nice."

Blake glances around him. There's a quiet hurt in the air. It's palpable, but he knows better than to ask for too many details. Not after he saw so many of them fighting at the protests. Armies large and small had to compartmentalize their pain -- there was no other way to function. Khalil is focusing on flicking his lighter. Anarosa has a hand on one of her peer's shoulders. Barsad avoids his gaze, after it's traveled throughout the length of the campfire. He sees the mourning in real-time.

He wonders how many of them wanted to give up, too.

"Yes. The League needs more helping hands. But you have your own troubles, hm?" Khalil says with a flick of his head. A genuine attempt to keep him in the conversation. "The great Batman not happy with you?"

"Yeah. You could say that." Yet another understatement of the century.

"That was a very advanced tracking advice." Anarosa adds. Barsad nods with her. "Not something that happens every day, even in our line of work."

"Yeah. Inside me, to boot." Blake rubs his hair. "Got shot twice, too. Uh, three, but the third was just a graze. Lost my freelance job. My apartment got seized because I'm wanted for murder..." He ticks them off on his fingers, then switches to his other hand when he's run out. It's like he's at alcoholics anonymous, except replace 'alcoholics' with 'mercenaries with blood on their hands' -- everyone nods a little _too_ casually at those last three words. "I know I'm preaching to the choir. It's nothing you all haven't seen before."

"Still. That...is a lot." Khalil says around his cigar with a frown.

"A lot for a few days." Salim agrees. "Gotham is crazy."

" _Oh_...who's going to water my plant?" Blake blinks, startled.

The thing about nervous breakdowns is they aren't usually planned. He has no doubt there are probably some incredibly keen psychologists and the occasional genius that can tick off their meltdown on a calendar, but for the most part, they come when they want to. So Blake starts laughing, hard enough that he can't even hold his bowl and has to set it down so he can lean on his knees and lose his shit.

"My fucking life is in shambles and I'm worried about a goddamn _plant!_ " He cackles, shaking in uncontrollable fits. "A plant. Oh my god..."

It'd probably hurt less if they just brushed him off as crazy. It's not like they hadn't seen him snap like this before, back when he had barely survived being yanked underwater with Salim by the alligator man and started cackling like the Joker while being hauled off to their med bay, but, no. The mercenaries just trade knowing glances over their bowls and watch as his shrill laughter dissolves into something much wetter and painful. It's not crying, not really. Nothing so cathartic.

"The plant was shit, anyway." Is he babbling? Probably. Yes. He's pretty sure he's just babbling now. "A shitty joke by one of my shitty co-workers at that _shitty_ place full of shitty assholes..."

Somewhere in-between him hiccuping (fucking _hiccuping_ , he's a goddamn farce-) and grinding his hands into his face Salim kneels in front of him and gives him a hug. It's not one of those limp gestures that people do when they want to put on a show, no, it's a tight, affectionate grip that actually startles him out of his hysterics.

He remembers when Salim was sitting with him all the way back in the storm drains, stripping a rifle to its basic components and detailing how his life had fallen apart just a few years prior.

Someone pats his shoulder. Barsad. His heart burns at the gentleness in his touch, as if he's prepared to pull away in an instant if it's too much. Anarosa and one of her peers kneel beside him, murmuring concern that doesn't really click with his frazzled brain. The kindness on display has him slackening, slowly, and resting a face against Salim's bony shoulder.

At the end of it all, when he's calmed down enough for them to give him a little air, Khalil offers him a cigar.

' _Well._ ' Blake thinks as he puffs on it and tries not to scratch at his swollen eyes as he stares into the fire. ' _I guess I'm part of the League now. In a way._ '

When everyone's finished eating and gone into their respective circles he finds Barsad by one of the tents.

"How are you feeling?" The second-in-command asks, typing something onto the tablet without looking at it. Even sitting cross-legged on the ground and looking as sleepy as ever, he was working.

"All right. Um." He's not sure where to start, so he cuts to the chase. "Look, I'm sorry...about all these secrets. I know Bane would've blamed you if he hadn't figured it out, or if _you_ hadn't, and I just...I appreciate you having my back. This isn't how I want things to go, but I'm between a rock and a hard place."

Barsad smiles, a little. It makes sudden sense, his quiet yet nurturing nature. He'd been a husband with a family. Someone who probably viewed the League as his new one.

"We are the League Of Shadows. Secrets are our trade. Trust me when I say I understand and harbor no ill will." He rubs his short, neatly trimmed beard, pen cocked between his knuckles. "If anything...I am rather touched you came back to us. You could have sold us out with us none the wiser. Bruce Wayne would have been able to offer you a hefty prize, no doubt, even though he recently went bankrupt."

Something painful flickers in his eyes. It's Blake's turn to reach out.

"Well. I know what it's like to be stabbed in the back by someone I thought I could trust." He responds. "It's...not something I make a habit of doing. We got off to a less-than-savory start, but...I respect you. All of you. What you're trying to do for a city as fucked up as this one."

Barsad seems a little taken aback by this. Then his posture relaxes and he nods to himself, as if realizing something.

"...Yes. I see that."

Blake wonders if he should poke after the enigmatic comment, but he barely has the energy. He feels gross and tired and just wants to rest.

"So, uh...about my apartment being seized..."

\--

It's almost dark once the fire is put out and the mercenaries either tuck in for the evening or change to their nightly rounds, with the leftover light a dark orange that barely stretches past the treetops. He finds Bane washing behind one of the vans. 

Blake is surprised to see he's completely nude, though he quickly admonishes his reaction and reminds himself that Bane not only comes from another part of the world, he also works with mercenaries, snipers and assassins. They probably didn't give a shit about nudity taboos.

"How often do you wash your mask?" Blake asks, gaze trailing down in a slow, guilty line. It didn't feel right to ogle him after their little row, but he looked so damn _good_. He can tell by the goosebumps dotting the man's skin that the water is freezing. Bane is quick, but fastidious, taking care to reach every inch. Familiarity hasn't numbed the staggering cut of his physique one bit. A wall of muscle from top to bottom, all broad shoulders and heavy arms and thick thighs.

"Every day to every other day, schedule permitting." Bane turns off the water and shivers the excess water off his body. Bright droplets glint over his swollen deltoids and split into rivers when they reach the knot on his spine. The masked man rolls his neck, stiffly, then does it again. "Do you need to wash?"

"Uh, yeah." He looks back up quickly. "I...don't suppose there's a heat setting on that, is there?"

Bane gives him a withering look, then twists the water back on and beckons him over.

It's not freezing. It's a winter storm trapped in a tank. He has to will himself not to bolt away from the spray as he scrubs the sweat from his hair and his pits. Sure, he grew up in Gotham, the world's very own frozen hellhole, but this was _awful._ Bane slips into a pair of fatigues and starts clicking on his brace a few feet away.

"S-So _this_ is what finally k-kills me." Blake stutters through chattering teeth as he tries to get the soap off him as fast as possible. "Your sh-shitty _faucet_."

"Technically it would be my shitty water container." Bane drawls from where he dresses beside one of the vans. "I thought that dip in the ocean would bolster your tolerance."

"Wait, f-from the city hall? F-Firstly, th-that was c-completely unexpected." Blake turns off the water and leans against the knob, shaking so hard he's sure his teeth are going to fall out of his mouth. On the plus side, his injured leg is completely numb now. "S-Secondly, that made me g-get sick. For d-d-days."

Bane wordlessly steps into the van and leaves him to dry off.

Blake tries to sort his feelings as he gets dressed. Everything still feels a little troublesome, but then again, how could it _not_ after they went everywhere and back again in the span of a few hours.

He can't help but feel selfish. He'd spent more than enough time venting and having intermittent nervous breakdowns, but here Bane was, shouldering his burdens with his characteristic reticence. It's not the totality of what makes him feel like shit, though. No, he feels like a complete failure of a partner because he knows the source of his pain and can't make the plunge.

Talia is out there, biding her time or directly causing the chaos, whichever, and he just can't find it in him to comfort Bane over it.

His logical brain knows Bane never wanted her to turn out that way. For anything to turn out like this. That he's perfectly in the right not to care for Talia personally after she threatened to stab him in the neck, dump his body into the ocean and blow up the entire city. It also tells him he's still being an asshole. His gut tells him...yes, he's being an asshole. It's a strange impulse, the desire to want to punch one's self.

What if Finn decided he wanted to go beyond petty theft and start setting houses on fire? What if Tiya turned his boundless energy into something more violent? What if, indeed...

These idle musings quickly go south. It's hardly been three days and he misses his boys so badly it physically hurts. He makes his way to the van and steps inside in a desperate need for a distraction. The sight of Bane's bare torso in better lighting easily jerks him out of what threatens to transform into an endless loop of negative feedback.

The inner car light is on, dim but clear enough for him to see what he's been healing from. He can see bruises (some fresh, some affected with a greenish tinge that suggests they've mostly healed) patterned along his sides and back in splashes. His eyes travel down to the thick stitches arching over his hip from what must've been that surgery Barsad mentioned. Another scar over his shoulder spans out pale and stretched.

"We're a mess..." He mutters. "...aren't we?"

Bane glances over his shoulder at him from where he sits, hunched tiredly over his knees, and Blake feels all his apprehension bleed out as he shuts the door behind him. He has a bundle of thread in his hand, twisting it in and out, but doesn't seem to be making anything in particular.

"Are...you okay?" He asks. It's a loaded question, intentionally, because the masked man is obviously _not_ okay. It was clear while he was washing that he was in pain, but he'd written it off as his usual aches and pains. He can see the muscles along his back twitching like they're covered in flies. Painful spasms he can almost feel himself. Christ. So this is what the mask kept shielding him from.

"What can I do?" He asks when Bane doesn't answer.

"...I have to alternate between different forms of medicine in order to stave off all-encompassing dependency on the analgesic in my mask." He starts, tightly, staring fixedly at the thread and jerking strands out of the bundle with stilted movements. "They are not as effective, but they-"

"That's not what I asked." He interjects, as gently as he can. "What can-"

"I am _not_..." Bane's sharp tone makes him jolt. "...in the mood. You made yourself loud and clear in the forest, what you _think_ of me, so tell me what you want, then allow me a moment's respite from your bullheadedness."

Even hunched over and shivering in what is clearly some serious pain he's a bundle of all his angry little tics rolled into one. Twitching hands, a wild stare, that virtual pull in gravity that made everything within a ten-foot vicinity feel completely and utterly wrong. Suddenly, leaving doesn't sound like such a bad idea...and it wouldn't be the first time he'd considered it.

Unfortunately for Bane, he's still not a coward.

"...Let me help." He says, softly. "Please."

Sharp, tense breaths grate out of the mask as Blake walks over (even as his instinct tells him to bolt and shut the door behind him) and slowly, carefully, sits down next to him. As gingerly as he can not to jostle the cot. He rubs his knuckles idly and waits for a few minutes as Bane works through his personal barriers.

"What...do you want from me, John?" Bane says, again, staring at the opposite wall where weapons and ammunition are neatly stored. Thread now bundled in one fist. "What do you see with those rose-tinted lenses of yours...? A future with a yard and a dog?" That last comment stings, a little, because he wouldn't mind those things someday. He also knows the concept must seem incredibly strange to a guy that was always on the move and spent half his life in prison.

"You seem to expect a great many things out of me. Things I cannot always be, at your leisure." He continues, only to pause and cringe visibly, muscles bunching beneath his skin in some spasm, and it takes all of Blake's willpower not to reach out to him. "Soft. Forgiving. Vulnerable. I enjoyed these dalliances in other lives, but these things are not what is demanded of me."

"...That's what you're calling it?" Blake says, carefully, when the man stops speaking. "Because I would've said _less_ obsessive and less petty." He sighs and rubs his forehead. "God, Bane. Why the hell _not?_ Why _can't_ you? I've seen you do all of the above. You're not your persona. Not..." He holds up a quick hand when the masked man shoots him a look. "Not _entirely_. You..." He chews on his lip. "...you're _more_ than that."

Bane looks away.

"No. No, I'm not." He says, and, _fuck_ , it hurts to hear something so resigned from the legendary freedom fighter trying to liberate Gotham one sacrifice at a time. "I was nobody without this mask. I was nobody without...Talia. What you offer me...this...olive branch...I'm not sure I can take it."

There's so _much_ to say, but it's hard to know where to start. They're both aching and tired in more ways than one from the past few days. Nothing will be resolved overnight. At the very least, he could tell him...

"You told me to never stop wanting better." Blake mutters, rubbing his forehead in a sudden fit of exhaustion. "I'm not always good at taking advice, so...now seems like a good place to start. Better late than never...right?"

He's staring at his knees, as if to suss out the answer to his rhetorical question, but he can feel Bane's gaze on him.

"...There is a knot." Bane eventually says, though it's barely comprehensible, hardly more than a hiss. "Below the left shoulder blade...and another one just below my neck. Stimulating blood flow would ease the pain, somewhat. ...If you would."

Blake's heart lifts. Just a little. He inches behind him and immediately starts searching. Even with the impressive expanse of his muscled back it doesn't take him long to find the offending muscles and start kneading them into compliance. At least, that's the plan. They feel like rocks beneath his skin, about as malleable and most definitely painful.

Minute after minute ticks by. Soon his hands are screaming with the exertion, but he doesn't stop. Not until Bane slowly, finally, starts to slouch and breathe a little easier.

"...Good?" Blake asks at his back, disguising the strain in his voice as best he can. No matter how long he stares at the scar on his spine, he's still having trouble figuring out what caused it.

"...Never truly good. But better." Bane grunts, rolling his neck and getting a few painful _pops_ out. "Perhaps _you_ should consider becoming a masseuse."

"I would, but going back to college would be a pain. At least I'd have a better excuse to drink too much coffee." Blake responds with tired good humor. "Should I sleep on the floor, then? You should take the cot tonight."

Bane glances at him over his shoulder. A low-lidded gaze. "...You're angry with me."

"A little."

"Then why stay?"

"...Just because you freak me out sometimes doesn't mean I want to sleep on the roof." He pauses for Bane's answer, then sighs when it doesn't come. "Do you _want_ me to go?"

Bane studies him, a quick up-and-down. The man sometimes flip-flopped between reading him like an open book and finding him kind of bizarre. It really did take one to know one.

Maybe later he'd care about the fact the person he risked his life for and would risk his life for again is scaring the shit out of him. Maybe later he'd dwell on him withholding details that matter and that it _will_ become a problem later because it's not something that just resolves itself on its own. Maybe he'd even consider that Bane is way more vindictive than he gave him credit for.

And compassionate. And secretive and clever and brave and cruel and it's just too goddamn _much_ in his already too goddamn much reality.

But for now...he just wants him near.

It's pretty cramped, even in a larger-than-average vehicle, but he doesn't mind. They have to wriggle a bit to make it work on a pull-out cot clearly designed for one, minding their recent injuries with jerky little movements. The cold still clings uncomfortably to his skin. He tries to make it look like complete coincidence when he all but molds himself against Bane's bare chest and stomach.

Bane lets out an irritated _huff_ , less to the cold and more when Blake accidentally knees him in the side trying to get off his injured hip ("Sorry, sorry-"). When he keeps threatening to slide off to the floor he curls an arm around his waist and tugs him up to rest half-on and half-off his chest. Blake doesn't normally sleep on his stomach, but he's so tired he could probably sleep on his head and get a doctor's recommended eight hours.

Arousal flickers in his loins, but exhaustion beats it down. He can tell Bane is feeling something similar, what with the stiffness pressing against his thigh and the tired way he reaches up and sluggishly starts pushing his fingers through his now-short hair.

"Oh." Blake grunts against his chest. "...'s good..."

It soothes the headache he didn't realize he had in what seems like no time at all. Definitely better than trying to talk through the awkwardness that's settled between them. The man's thumb moves along his hairline where the bullet grazed him -- he starts to speak, only to clear his throat.

"I...like this." He eventually says, roughly. If he didn't know better, he'd say he sounds...apprehensive.

Blake lifts his head up a little, even though it feels like it weighs fifty pounds. "The new hair or the new scar?"

"The scar." He responds, more smoothly this time. "The hair...well." His fingers fan out, then curl in and grip his hair from the back. Firm enough to hold his head steady, not firm enough to stretch his stitches. Not unlike how he did earlier.

"Ah." A tight shiver winds its way through his scalp to ripple down his body. "That...feels nice."

"Oh...?" Bane says, sounding pleased, relaxing his grip, then repeating the motion. "Good. Although it is not so easy to grab now."

"You'll...figure it out, I'm sure." Blake says after swallowing once, twice, past his dry throat. When he had more energy he was going to need Bane to hold his head like this over his cock somewhere with way less people. "You should grow your hair out and let me try someday."

"No."

"You didn't even _think_ about it."

"There isn't much purpose."

"I don't know, a new look. Maybe."

"A new look. For what, pray tell?"

"For your fashion spread in The Gotham Queue. You know, in case vigilantism doesn't work out."

Bane's chest twitches. Then it twitches some more. Blake has to lean up for fear the man's having a heart attack, but no. He's wheezing with laughter, something he tries to stifle even in the closed off van interior. A slow, creaky smile spreads on Blake's face. He didn't think he'd get to hear it again so soon.

"Don't make me laugh, John." He sighs when he's calmed down. "My back is barely holding together as it is."

"Speaking of which. You gonna be okay...?" Blake mumbles, situating himself on his stomach again now that Bane's entire torso is no longer bouncing like an earthquake. "For now?"

"As long as my spine is relatively straight."

"Good...that's good..."

"Your hip..." His other hand hovers over the bumpy, swollen scar where his tattoo used to be. Blake works at the lump threatening to clog his throat again.

"...fucking hurts."

Bane moves his hand to the small of his back instead and continues to massage his scalp in slow, languid strokes with the other. The caution is still there between them, but fainter. Tangled up with a dozen other things. Not ideal, not yet, but...better.

"...Mm."

\--

"...You are making a mistake..."

"How could you _possibly_ know that?"

"I am begging you...cease your madness and come back to me."

Blake wakes up, barely, and everything is pitch-black. He's alone. The detective squirms a little in the free space, blissfully warm and weightless, and the ache in his leg has dulled. There are sounds outside the room. The _crunch_ of dirt somewhere to his left. More talking. The blanket draped over him is homemade. He can tell. There's a certain feel that can't be replicated.

That means he's back at the orphanage. No...Batman's hideout? The Batcave...No. No, he's somewhere else. Somehow this thought doesn't make him sit up in a cold sweat. He knows he's safe and that's what matters.

"She never wanted this for you. She never wanted this."

" **I will not**."

He can't hear the other person, but they're still speaking, muffled through the walls. No, car doors. That's right. He's with the League right now. A phone call, probably? His tired mind shelves these bits of knowledge as mundane and he lets himself drift.

"...please don't leave me with no choice."

The only way he can tell any time has passed is that one moment Bane isn't there and the next he is. He doesn't turn on the light (he never needs to), but he moves about with a palpable uneasiness somewhere in the black. A soft _click-clack_. A sound he doesn't recognize. Not his belt, not his brace. The characteristic wheeze that plays out of his mask vanishes like a whistle in the wind. Blake wonders if he's dreaming.

Then something presses against his hairline. Not a hand, no. It's much smaller, bumpy yet...soft. Gentle. It warms him, all the way down to his soul, even as he's not really sure what's happening, but that's before he realizes he can feel the man shaking. Then Bane pulls away and the warmth with him.

Then it clicks. Who he was talking to.

"...Hey..." Blake mumbles. He reaches out, over the edge of the fold-out, and swipes uselessly at empty air in a bid to bring him over. "...Hey. Don't go anywhere. I need you here...been falling a lot lately and it's...it's a lot...I freaked out in front of everyone again...part of me is kinda glad you weren't there to see it..." Somewhere, distantly, yet another Blake is shaking his head at how silly he sounds. But the words are tumbling out, honest and plain. "...but a part of me knows that's the problem, huh...?"

"This is hard, what you did...no, what you're _doing_ and I'm...I didn't mean what I said...well, not all of it, anyway." He blows out a sigh when the words feel less like a comforting speech and more like a drunk ramble. "Just, look. What I'm trying to say is...I can catch _you_ , too...'m stronger than I look, so...you don't have to do this alone...'kay...? We can figure this out and...and be less stubborn together...if we try."

Silence. When nothing else happens he just flops his arm in a 90-degree angle over the edge of the cot and sighs. He probably should've waited until he was less exhausted to give him a pep talk.

The silence shifts. Bane's hand reaches through the still to lift his arm back onto the thin mattress. Then it slides down his cheek to cup the back of his head. There's the faintest _creak_ as the massive man kneels onto the floor. Blake smiles sleepily, relaxing at the knowledge that he didn't drive him away...then tenses up all over again when Bane pushes his mouth against his.

It's rough, even clumsy, as if he's never done it before, but it's more than that which startles him into wakefulness. His face is _coated_ in scars. They bump and press unevenly, little-by-little forming a meager picture through the dark -- something terrible happened to him, a past act that would no doubt horrify him in better lighting. From knives, from hands, from something _worse_ , he doesn't know. It makes him want to weep.

Then Bane is hissing in pain and Blake finally tries to sit up, now fully aware and confused as hell. He opens his mouth to ask what's going on, why his mask is off, if he's _hurting_ him-

A rough hand presses him back into the bed and holds him firm. Blake's heart pounds against Bane's palm as he fumbles with something. He hears a soft _hiss_ , then another. Then his mouth is enveloping his again. The faintest tingle of numbness flickers throughout his lips, a strange contrast to Bane's hot breath. The analgesic he depended on nigh- constantly.

Blake's stomach starts to twist as the weight of what he's doing starts to truly sink in. Hell, even _he_ was out of practice. He could never kiss him with the mask, not on the mouth, at least. So he nibbles and pecks quickly, _eagerly_ , moves his mouth down to his chin and up to the corner of his mouth in an effort to catch up. Bane is leaning heavy over him in a half-crouch, boxing him beneath his torso and arms -- he's slower to follow traditional cues, his unfamiliarity with kissing clear in the hesitant gaps in-between movements.

His mouth is full and pliant. Something that would no doubt turn a lot of people's heads, scars notwithstanding. Deja vu stings the corner of his mind, an echo of a distant dream, but he pushes it away and all but throws himself into the present. Blake takes the fat lower lip between his teeth and sucks, softly, aware of the pain that still haunts the knobbly flesh. Bane has started to follow his lead. He mimics him, biting sharply and pulling to snap his lip back, then again, then again.

In-between teeth and unsteady breaths Blake flicks his tongue against his lips, a physical request for him to open more. Bane stiffens, hesitant all over again, trying to follow his lead and coming up short. So he reaches up to cup his chin and run a thumb along his maimed mouth. A tiny nudge. Bane twists his face out of his grasp. His chest tightens with unease that he's crossed a boundary, but no. He's taken another deep breath from the numbing gas and returned, moving close and crooking his mouth halfway open at Blake's insistence.

The detective tilts his head and slides his tongue in. A tentative brush at first, then a deeper thrust, giving the man time to acquaint himself with the new sensation. He finds it strange, Blake can tell, but the way his breath quickens into shallow pants tells him it's not at all the bad kind. Bane's hand is back to cradling his head again, grabbing his hair only to relax his grip in hungry, furtive little movements.

Blake shivers convulsively when he digs nails into his scalp and tilts his head back. Bane pets the hollow of his throat with his other hand as he slides his tongue along his teeth, then licks in deep and roams around with growing ease. Lapping as if he's _parched_. There's a vivid dip in the flesh, then another. No doubt more terrible scars, ones Blake prods at gently but without shame.

His heart could pound a dent into his ribs. He feels so good he could burst, this closeness, this _hunger_ , even in the dark where words seem all but forbidden.

Blake paws mindlessly at the spots on Bane's shoulders and back that aren't bruised, which aren't many. He tries to pull him down and closer, dizzy from their shared half-breaths and the heat radiating from their bodies. Bane even shifts his face away for another breath, a hoarse _gasp_ into his skin, then leans fully onto the bed to bite the side of Blake's neck hard enough to bruise.

He's choking down his curses, he doesn't want to taint the silence, but Bane is grinding his teeth into his neck and it _hurts_ and he thinks he's never been so addicted to agony in his life. It's only when he accidentally cuts the skin does Blake finally gasp, soft as a firecracker in the still. Bane is suddenly tender, scarred nose pushed against him as he laps a burning tongue over the blood welling to the surface. Then he's back to his mouth in less than a heartbeat, blood's copper and the mask's metallic tang and his own natural musk mixing like a cocktail as he bites in more memories.

Again and again Bane yanks impatient breaths from the mask. Blake doesn't wait for him to return each and every time, kissing desperately along him, up to him, into him. Biting him back. Clawing him back. To and fro they churn like ocean waves. A rolling oscillation that temporarily steadies their world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for Bane and Blake to start really going through the growing pains of their relationship. It's a good thing not everything that hurts is bad.
> 
> Listened to 'Alternate World' by Son Lux probably a _thousand_ times while writing this, too...which would explain some of what happens in this chapter, let's be honest.


	50. You Can Count On Me

"Harleen, we're here. Please _try_ to look at least somewhat dependable. Our non-existent reputation is kind of on the line here."

If she didn't know any better (and she most _certainly_ does), she'd say the cat burglar could use a sense of humor. As it stood, she had one. It was just less like Harleen's particular brand of improvised firecracker and more like a pool noodle. A person _thinks_ they know what's coming, then Selina's slapping them in the ass with it and snickering at the leftover welt.

Harleen had her very favorite outfit messed up in the protests and, despite her _best_ attempts combining bleach and assorted home remedies, she had to toss almost the entire thing. Bruce had been surprisingly generous, though, and gave them both cash to buy something new (" _And less flashy, if you'd be so kind. You've always stood out like a sore thumb at the best of times_."). Considering the last time she saw him face-to-face was years ago when he'd been hauling her by one arm into custody, it was much nicer than she was expecting.

So she took his advice to heart and bought herself a subdued corset-top _just_ tucked into a pair of restrained high-waisted diamond-print shorts. A short (and _very_ withdrawn) cherry-red jacket and matching boots for flavor. The sleeping cat earrings completed the set-up with a low-key charm, if she could say so herself.

She preens in the dirty mirror by the door and glances over at the woman giving her a much dirtier look.

Unlike her, Selina was a dedicated fan of Gotham minimalism. She treated color with the same irritation she did...well, _everything_. She had stashed her catsuit at the Batcave and bought a gray leather jacket over boot-cut jeans and ankle boots. She'd look fairly basic...if not for the rather pretty choker poking out of the front of her collar.

" _I mean..._ " She had said when they left the store, a sly smile stretching her mouth. " _He gave me extra._ "

According to the two separate incidents of catcalling that met them on the way over (neither of which they responded to kindly), they made quite the pair.

"Doll, dependable is my middle name." She says as she finally comes to the decision to keep her collar un-popped. Maybe a _tiny_ dash of subtlety couldn't hurt.

"Yesterday Wine Queen was your middle name." Selina snorts.

"You can't fault a girl for complexity." Harleen says as she knocks once more.

Sherlock had been nearly off-his-rocker with worry over this orphanage, fussing and huffing all the way up until he left the Batcave. Since he'd been kind enough to do them _all_ a favor by continuing to play nice with Bane (though she had a few suspicions on _how_ nice), she and Selina agreed to drop by St. Swithin's to let them know how their favorite detective was doing.

"They could probably _hear_ us if I brought my babies with me." Harleen adds.

Selina stiffens and, being the temperamental housecat she is, reminds her for the _fourth_ time that day she can't phone Katsu and have her bring over Bud and Lou.

"Aw, come _on_. It's an orphanage! I bet these poor things haven't had fun in months." Harleen whines as they continue to wait on the front door entrance. It wasn't that bad looking a place, really. A little too old-fashioned and the paint needed a touch-up (or forty), but the front yard was much cleaner than it had any right to be. An old, grumpy man was _definitely_ in charge here.

"Your idea of fun usually ends with people losing fingers." Selina grumbles. "Why the hell isn't anyone answering? We've been out here for ages."

"It's pretty loud in there." Harleen bounces on her heels impatiently. "Should we try the back?"

"He _did_ give us his spare key." Selina notes as she rummages through her pocket. "But they also could've changed it while he was gone."

"Only one way to find out." Harleen winks. "I can open the door if entering with permission cramps your style."

"Oh, give it a rest. Entering through the front door or front window is one of the best ways of breaking and entering, anyway." Selina says, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "Just don't show the video to the boys. Blake told us to show the Father _first_. I know how sentimental you get."

Harleen sticks her tongue out, then sputters when Selina flicks her brown hair right into her face and sticks the key into the door handle. A quick jiggle and it _clicks_.

"Well, that's a good-"

Selina immediately scrambles back from the doorway when a thunderous barking echoes down the hallway connecting to the foyer. A huge white furball rounds the corner like a bat out of Hell, nails _click-clacking_ on the wooden floor in its frenzy to greet them. Harleen has been around enough pooches to know it's _excited_ rather than a threat, but Selina has already booked it back down the front stairs and made it all the way out to the lawn again.

" _A puppy!_ " Harleen squeals when the dog jumps on its hind legs and starts trying to lick at her face. "Oh, ain't _you_ a sweetie-pie?! I shoulda brought treats! No, no, watch the lip gloss, honey-"

"He should've _told_ us he had a dog the size of a taco truck." Selina all but hisses somewhere far behind her. She couldn't get more cat-like if she tried -- while she's been adopting strays left and right over the past few weeks ('specially with all the protests making it more dangerous for the city animals), dogs were always _strictly_ out of the question. She said they smelled (which was generally true) and were stupid (which was a terrible lie).

"Sorry, Barbara, she still gets really excited when people come...over..." A voice begins, only to trail off. Harleen looks past the tall white ears at a small boy in a blue argyle sweater. He reaches up to rub at his dark hair, then thinks better of it. It's not hard to see why. His hands and forearms are coated in what seems like flour or chalk. "Um...are you Barbara's friends?"

"Somethin' like that." Harleen responds cheerfully -- Barbara was mentioned before they left the cave, a friend of Blake's, and she was probably babysitting in his absence. No need to tell the kid they've never met. "Who's this?" She squishes the dog's face. Its tail lashes back and forth with furious energy. It's probably bigger than Lou, though it very well could be the fur contributing to its wholesome wolfish appeal.

"That's Trevor. She's a she." The boy explains, calmly, though he's still eyeing them suspiciously. Too suspiciously for someone that can't be any older than twelve.

"Bringin' back those gender-neutral names, huh? Good on ya, kiddo." She grins, then holds out her hand. "Lemme introduce myself properly. Call me Harleen. Everyone does."

The boy blinks owlishly at her.

"Harleen?" He repeats slowly. "...Like Harley Quinn?"

Harleen gapes. _Cripes._ Seems Sherlock was rubbing off on the kids here. That or she really should shake up her look more often.

"More than one person with a name like that, kid." Selina says, back inside but keeping a significant distance from Trevor. "Where's the owner of the place? Father Reilly?"

"Uh, yeah. Um. We were supposed to wait for Barbara to come look after us for a bit. She should be here soon..." The kid really doesn't look like he wants to invite more trouble. "He's...Reilly probably would wanna know why-"

" _Hey!_ Who let you in?" A voice bellows. All of them turn to look at the much taller teenager storming down the hallway. "Get out. We're not accepting solicitors, offers, interviews or anything you wanna sell."

Harleen holds up placating hands and puts on her sunniest smile.

"Hey, wait, hold up. We just wanted to-"

"That's the new rule. We don't let anybody in until they get the clear from Reilly or me. There are suspicious people around and _any_ of them could try to find their way inside. Remember when we almost got robbed? The guy pulled a _knife_ on me!" He's already admonishing the smaller boy pretty harshly, who's embarrassed and looking down at his feet. "Amir, what did I _tell_ you?"

"I didn't let them _in_ , Finn. They came in themselves." Amir flicks his dark bangs out of his eyes. "They said they were friends of Barbara. I was going to ask you about it..."

"Are they?" Finn looks sharply at them. Judging by the smudges of oil on his knees and his rolled-up sleeves, he was something of a greasemonkey. " _Are_ you?"

"Friends is a great way to put it!" Harleen responds brightly. Finn's scowl only deepens.

"Yeah? What's Barbara's full name, then?"

She holds up a finger...then stares dumbly. Blake didn't tell her _that_ much. Then Selina swoops to her rescue with such swiftness Harleen could kiss her.

"Barbara Juanita Gordon. You done with the interrogation?" She says with a challenging tilt to her head. Quite a few of the St. Swithin's boys are peering down the hall in a gaggle of curious faces that nearly fill the doorframe. Seems they were busy with something before and the commotion was just now getting their attention.

"Maybe. Still find it a little strange Barbara didn't mention you two were comin'." Finn pulls out his phone. "You think I should give _my_ friends a call? Just to make sure you both don't pull anything funny 'til she gets here."

"Finn, _don't_ -" Amir starts, reaching out only for Finn to flick the phone out of his reach with a sharp request to ' _Back off!_ '. Selina grinds fingers into her temples as the dog starts dancing from foot-to-foot and barking loud enough to make the photos on the wall rattle. While she wasn't exactly _trembling_ as to the kinds of friends this very young adult would have on tap, Harleen knew a thing or two about de-escalating bad situations before they got worse.

"Oh, fuck it." Harleen yells over Trevor's howls. "We're here to give y'all a message about _Blake_."

Selina stares at her wordlessly, then groans and slaps a hand to her forehead. Harleen shrugs.

"Come on, Kit-Kat. They're orphans. They ain't the type to snitch."

Finn's eyes have widened. He slowly pockets the phone. Amir is completely still. The boys down the hall, who had been mumbling to one another, have gone quiet. Even the _dog_ shut up, though her wagging tail keeps slapping Selina's thigh and making the woman look more murderous than normal.

"Wait...you _know_ Blake?" Finn begins, voice softening and sounding almost hopeful, then his eyes darken in a flash. "If you want us to rat him out or something, you're out of luck. Talk to Reilly if you want another cover story."

"Oh, for the love of..." Harleen blows out a sigh and puts her hands on her hips. "You're not half-bad at this, kid, but we're _tryin'_ to do ya a favor. Selina, just show them the video already."

"He better yell at you for this." Selina gripes as she pulls out her phone and opens up the short video Blake recorded before he left to rendezvous with Bane and the gang. It was directed at the Father of the orphanage, in theory, but he addresses every last boy first. Amir has waved over the rest of his peers and in a blink they're surrounded by kids and tweens and teens.

Trevor whines happily and squirms between them, trying to lick everyone's hands. Amir carefully keeps his out of reach.

" _...Christopher, Emanuel, Jai, Tiya, Joel, Jamal, Finn._ " Blake finishes. " _I'm trusting Harleen and Selina here to deliver this message properly. I don't have a lot of time to sit and finesse the details on what's going on right now, nor would I in case this got in the wrong hands, but...believe me when I say the news isn't giving you the full story. I don't know exactly when I'll be able to get back to you guys, but I'll do my damndest to make it as soon as possible._ "

The detective is sitting by the river that runs throughout the Batcave, which must make for an incredibly weird sight to these city kids. The natural light fans out behind his back and shadows his features. He seems to realize this halfway through addressing them all and alters the phone to better adjust.

Harleen steals a glance at the boys' faces and immediately wishes she hadn't. Finn has a hand over his mouth. Amir is scrubbing discreetly at his face with his shoulder. Another boy, one with windblown hair, is signing to his taller peer as Blake speaks -- their face is utterly crestfallen and their eyes keep flicking restlessly back and forth between the video and their friend's hands.

" _Finn, I'm...sorry. I wish I could be more specific about what's happening, I really do. It's..._ " Blake pauses in the video, running a hand through his hair. It's clear he doesn't mean to, but it shows off the thick stitches running across the side of his head and bleeding into his hairline. One of the boys gasps under their breath. " _I'll make this up to you, when all this is over. Please take care of your brothers...and your Father. He hasn't been doing well lately. He needs you all to pick up around the house._ "

A tiny boy with curly hair and chubby cheeks pops out of the cluster of bodies. He stands on his toes, trying to see the video better.

"Who's that? Is that Blake?" He squeaks over the audio. "Can I talk to him?" The other boys hush him, gently, and he goes quiet.

" _Jai, I know you've been practicing your cooking skills. Give your brothers something to eat when Reilly doesn't have the energy, okay? I know that's a lot since you and Emanuel graduated, but it would mean the world to him. Sasha and Barbara can't always drop by._ " He's clearly trying for something more stern (just like a big brother) but it doesn't take. Harleen can see the corner of his mouth trembling, briefly, as if he can't figure out whether to smile or break down. Then, in a flash, he straightens up and continues.

" _Reilly, I don't blame you for wanting to distance yourself from me. I mean...you were right. About all of it. I was...I...the **last** thing I wanted was for any of this to blow back onto you and the kids, but that didn't change a thing...did it?_ " Blake pauses again at someone's voice off-screen. It sounds like Alfred calling him over. " _Shit, that's...I know that's not what you want to hear. Listen, I...I love you. All of you. I want all of you to have the best possible shot at adulthood. Something I only got because of people like Reilly._ "

There's a soft _knock-knock_ on the door behind them. It's just then that the video wraps up.

" _Look after each other during lockdown. I know it's not easy...but you'll get through this._ "

The video stops. A rough _sniffle_ to her right. Harleen looks over again to see Finn blinking back tears. The tiny boy is looking up at all of them one-by-one, more than a little confused why everyone's getting emotional. Harleen feels very much the same.

"Hey." She says to Finn with a friendly hand on his shoulder. "What's with the waterworks? He's okay, ain't he?"

"We saw him just the other day." Selina adds, trying to be helpful. "The stitches really aren't as bad as they look."

Finn looks at them both for one shaky second, then turns and quickly walks down the hall and out of sight. Trevor stops panting and stares after him, tail slowing down to a tentative swish. Another boy, the wild-haired one that had been signing to his friend, speaks up.

"Uh, they got into a fight before Blake left to the protest. Finn didn't want him to go, then Blake, like, fell over in the kitchen and scared the crap outta everybody, then Blake got a call and said one of his friends got hurt and then _Finn_ said that he just keeps trying to play the hero instead of-" He starts to explain in a child's typical run-on sentence.

"Blake didn't _fall_ over, Tiya." Amir interrupts moodily. Harleen gets the feeling these two bicker a lot. "He had a panic attack."

"Well, he _almost_ did." Tiya shoots back. "Lighten up, I'm just trying to tell her what happened in case it happens again or something." He adds for Harleen's benefit. The boy Tiya had been signing to, who had been watching his face intently all the while, gives him a meaningful nudge in the ribs. "Okay, okay, stop! It's...it's really complicated." The kid's voice softens. "Um. But, yeah. Finn feels really bad about it."

"If...he has another panic attack like that can..." Amir says, then he hesitates. It's clear he was one of the shyer ones. That or he wasn't sure how much pull he had with two complete strangers. "...can you help him out?"

Harleen and Selina glance at each other.

"That's why we're here." Selina says, simply.

Another, more insistent _knock_. One of the orphans finally jogs up to the door and flings it open. A young woman with frizzy red curls and a jacket probably more expensive than Harleen's entire ensemble walks in with a bag under one arm and a purse slung over the other shoulder.

" _Sheesh_. Sorry I'm late everybody. Another road got closed nearby. Sometimes I think lockdown is less to capture the bad guys and more to make the daily commute a nightmare." She smiles appreciatively when the kid relieves her of the bag, then she halts, looking them up-and-down curiously. "Oh! I'm sorry, but...who are you?"

Harleen shoots out a hand.

"Call me Harleen. Everyone does."

Amir gives her a funny look out of the corner of her eye.

All three of them go out on the porch to have a chat. Turns out Reilly's away at the hospital and won't be back for a bit (which Finn _could_ have told her to begin with, but-). Harleen wishes she had more than the span of half a minute to think of what to tell _her_ instead of the orphanage's Father, but she also wishes she could've brought her babies over to play with Trevor. One couldn't have it all.

Blake didn't want to keep her entirely out of the loop, it's clear they were close...but he also had his reservations, that of which Harleen politely doesn't mention as they're sheparded through the orphanage and outside again.

"So...you two know Blake?" Barbara starts, carefully, hands folded politely in her lap from where she sits across from them on the back porch. She holds herself with grace, like someone who had to grow up a little too fast. That's all Harleen has to go off of, because no matter how much she squints at her she can't place her age.

"What are you talking about?" Selina says with a carefully blank expression. Barbara slowly raises her eyebrows, like she's just been insulted.

"You think I can't tell?" She gestures behind her. "Everyone in here looks like they've seen a ghost. I _know_ this has something to do with Blake."

Harleen winces. While she may have let her heart run off with her again and showed the boys the video _anyway_ , she's not sure how much she wants to tell Barbara. What with her being the Commissioner's granddaughter and all. Just like everyone else in this building, she's sharp as a needle and picks up where her hesitance is coming from.

"Look. Blake's my friend." She says, more confidently. "I just want to know if he's okay. The last I time I saw him was at the protests. He asked me to drive him downtown to help a friend, then he vanished." Then she gets a look on her face that could break a gangster's heart. "Please?"

Harleen rubs her hair uncertainly.

_"She's like a sister to me." Blake rubs a tired hand across his face. "But Gordon is still her grandfather and they've always been very close. I'm not going to harbor any delusions about who she's going to side with, so...I'd appreciate it if you could tell her the basics and leave it at that. Nothing about where I am or who I'm working with. Just let her know I'm all right."_

"Friend or no friend..." Selina crosses her legs as she always does when gearing up for a tough conversation. "Your connections make me a little wary, if we're being honest here."

"Just because I'm Gordon's granddaughter doesn't mean I'm above the law." Barbara waves an airy hand.

"And just because Blake trusts you doesn't mean I do." Selina cuts in with a roll to her eyes somewhere up at the ceiling, already beginning to run her social tires raw. "You'll need something a _lot_ better than your word if you want details."

Just like her to immediately go for the bribe. Barbara looks seriously conflicted -- she was pretty well-off, that much was clear just by the way she dressed, and Harleen isn't _100%_ positive Selina would turn down a good chunk of cash. She had more morals than the average schmuck, of course. She just had it regularly butting heads with apathy and that drinking habit she was starting to develop. It was a bruised and sad little thing.

The Commissioner's granddaughter suddenly pulls out her phone and starts tapping on it furiously. Selina tenses and reaches into her pocket...then cocks an eyebrow when Barbara holds out a photo at arm's length. It's a picture of the 'Batgirl' -- the Acres crew has passed this same photo around back and forth in casual conversation. It's a rather impressive shot of the vigilante standing on top of the fence to Gotham University. The building stretches out behind her in an white blur, making the bright purple of her costume stand out all the more.

"Okay?" Selina starts. "What about her-"

"That's _me_."

Harleen could do a backflip. The Batgirl herself...with a gesture of trust, no less! Selina's mouth thins, like she didn't expect the conversation to go in _this_ direction, of all places. She didn't expect much out of people, all things told, and it was one of her... _lesser_ features.

"...You made that yourself?" She asks. Barbara looks a little surprised that's the question she's starting with, then incredibly proud.

"Yeah. Yeah, I did. Took me ages trying to figure out whether or not to go with full-grain or top-grain, but it's better than the prototype." She scratches the back of her head. "...A _lot_ better."

"The purple is a great touch." Selina admits. "Though the cape probably gets in the way, huh?"

"That's why I made it shorter." Barbara says, almost shaking with eagerness she has someone to share this with. "I couldn't go _without_. It'd hurt my image."

Harleen barely holds back a cackle at Selina's expression. When she first started bunking with Gotham's resident cat burglar she'd asked her, once, why she didn't try a cape alongside her catsuit and goggles. It _had_ been an attempt at a joke. Get her to loosen up a little with her new roommate. Selina had instead given her a nearly hour-long spiel on all the things that could go wrong with a 'fashion blanket'.

' _See, that's why **my** career has been going off without a hitch and Batman keeps getting caught._ ' Selina had said as Harleen guffawed on her living room floor. ' _No capes._ '

Then she'd nearly kicked her out onto the street for asking why a cape was off-limits but _stillettos_ got the a-okay.

The conversation quickly switches back to the detective. Barbara, clearly a person who's earnest to a fault, is detailing all the things that could go _right_ with this unexpected meeting.

"Blake doesn't have a criminal record, which is one of the best factors in his favor." She ticks off on each finger. "Secondly, Bane being involved as per my grandfather's account means the blame could easily be pinned on him. Besides. _I_ know he's not the type of person to kill in cold blood. I have no doubt he was set up somehow and the department is just looking for someone to throw under the bus."

"...Really?" Selina picks something out from under her nail. "Because I saw him do it."

Barbara stiffens in shock. So does Harleen. What was Selina playing at?

"Wait...what? You _saw?_ " She repeats, breathless, looking like she's about to topple off the couch. The psychologist in Harleen wants to reach out and steady her, but she keeps herself firmly where she is. "But...how? He wouldn't..."

"I have no doubt he _wouldn't_ , unprovoked. As it stands, Foley shot him." Selina says. "Surprised your grandfather didn't mention that, seeing as _he_ was there. You two should chat pretty often."

"...No." Her shoulders sag. "I've only been able to talk to him once over the phone. He didn't tell me much at all. I think he was afraid what would happen to me if I knew too much..." She shakes her head, hard, and leans forward. "But why? Why would Foley shoot him? How did you see all this? None of this makes any sense-"

Selina's expression grows hard.

"Look...you're not going to get very far pretending things aren't all _that_ bad." She's barely keeping the mockery out of her tone. "You lucked out and just so happened to have your grandpa giving you a cushy security net while the rest of us had to live hand-to-mouth. You go to Gotham University, right?" Barbara folds her arms tightly, looking like she wants to argue but coming up short. "Right. So whatever story you want to conjure up in your head that what's going on right now is some bizarre exception, toss it in the trash where it belongs."

They all go quiet when a gaggle of the boys thunder through the house right behind them. Selina continues when their voices recede from earshot.

"Blake isn't some poorly maligned saint, either. He's a pain in the ass and he's made a few enemies."

The young woman looks away, crestfallen. Then Selina adds:

"...and he's also made some powerful friends."

Harleen beams. She was convinced Selina and Blake were always going to be on the wrong foot (and, well, he didn't exactly help with _that_ first impression), but she was warming up to him little-by-little. She hated it when her friends didn't get along with other friends. She had quite a few nowadays, so she clamps her mouth shut and gives her a huge smile to continue.

"I'd tell you more, but we're already risking a lot just being here." Selina's eyes flick to her coolly before returning to Barbara. "Do us a favor and don't go telling all your officer buddies about our little visit, yeah? It's not in my line of work to clock teenagers."

"I'm twenty." Barbara hisses. _Oh_. Gosh, she has a hell of a baby face. "We already came to an agreement about that. You know my secret identity. My grandfather, however, is being tried for something he didn't even do."

"And he put a lot of people in Blackgate for something _Batman_ didn't even do." Selina hisses back. "People like _me._ "

Harleen puts a sympathetic hand on her arm that may or may not be a ' _Please don't mess this up with your prickly nature_ ' arm. Selina shoots her a dark look and she pulls back.

"...Yes. I know about Blackgate and Harvey Dent." Barbara all but deflates. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. ...I want to help." She looks up, resolute, and repeats. "I _want_ to help. Let me see him. We can do something about this, all of us. If we don't act now Gordon _and_ Blake could end up in prison for life."

Selina doesn't tell her everything, still, but she _does_ clue her in on what happened at the Public Library. Her being Gotham's most notorious and slippery burglar is conspicuously left out, instead replaced with a _very_ honest lie about how she had attended the protests and stumbled upon Batman and Bane fighting. Harleen keeps glancing back at the windows all the while. She's about 40% certain one of the kids keeps trying to spy on them.

"Bane disappeared, too...after the protests nobody has seen him make public appearances. Blake is somewhere out there and hiding..." Barbara breathes, some revelation making her eyes widen. "Wait...Bane couldn't have...?"

"I'm just telling you what I saw." Selina says with a shrug, then looks away in a way that suggests the conversation is over.

For good measure she records a confession on Barbara's behalf that she was the Batgirl saving children from ne'er do wells and rescuing cats from trees. The young woman isn't thrilled to do so, nor does she like it when Harleen puts her escapades like that. It wasn't _Harleen's_ fault that her most recent video (plucking a stray kitten from a tree branch as the elderly couple wept gratefully many feet below) took the Internet by storm.

"You've definitely got a better sense of color than Batman." Harleen says when Barbara takes her phone back. "Though that's probably not saying much."

"Hopefully I can do a better job than Batman." She says, smoothly, and turns the screen off.

They're all treated to lunch, courtesy of two of the older members (and another clearly inseparable pair), Jai and Emanuel. She's never been one to turn down free food, though a tiny part of her wants to relish in the orphanage a little while longer just for its sake. It's just so... _homely_. It reminds her a little of where she grew up near Old Gotham. Before, of course, everything went to shit as childhoods were so prone to doing.

That tiny boy's name is Joel and he finishes lunch quickly to play in the yellowing grass with the dog. Already she feels protective of these kids and the tough road ahead of them. Hopefully Blake got the information he was looking for, because the sooner they found Scarecrow (and a _bomb_ , what the hell-), the better. She has to seriously distract herself from the thought of what these boys would go through if they got even a _whiff_ of that toxin, what with all the hard backgrounds many of them no doubt came from...

"You're doing it again."

Harleen looks over her sandwich at Selina. "Dooehn whut agun?" 

Selina wrinkles her nose. "First off, chew. Second, _that_. Getting all gooey-eyed like you're going to adopt half these kids when I'm not looking."

"What, you never thought about havin' the pitter-patter of little feet at your place?" Harleen teases. She's surprised when Selina puts a chin in her hand and looks wistful.

"...I've thought about it." She sounds almost a little touchy when she adds, over the rim of her cup as she sips her tea, "...just 'cause I don't take shit doesn't mean I hate kids, you know."

"Aw, I didn't imply that." Harleen huffs, though she puts on an apologetic frown for good measure. She taps her chin with one finger. "...so...you and Bruce...?"

Selina tenses.

"Topic change, Harl."

"...you, a gaggle of kids and a cute Golden Retriever?"

"A _better_ topic change, Harl."

"Never change, Kit-Kat."

They settle into a comfortable silence, listening to the intermittent _creaks_ of the activity inside and the hustle and bustle of the surrounding neighborhood. After the Joker she still thought her dreams of a happy little family would always stay a dusty photograph in her back pocket. Something she could pull out when she was sad, but nothing more. Harleen wasn't expecting to walk off into the sunset.

Scarecrow's toxin, though...getting a taste of what could be, for the first time in years, was like a splash of water to the face. It was the last place she'd look to for a revelation, but she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Even as she was planning on punching that gift horse in the mouth until it had no more teeth.

Joel's happy shriek turns both their heads. Trevor is trying to lick his face, making him writhe on the ground and mock-call for help. Maybe she didn't _deserve_ a happy ending. But...maybe, just _maybe_ , she could somehow make up for what she's done. Kick out Scarecrow and his cronies, clean up some of the struggling neighborhoods, figure out what Bane was up to. After that...

"...You're also doing _that_ again." Selina murmurs as she digs through her half-eaten salad.

Harleen blinks at her.

"You're not his girlfriend anymore." She says, taking a bite and looking over at the tiny boy hiding his face in the grass. Trevor shoves her snout into the crook of his arms, snuffling eagerly. "...Sooner or later you'll have to stop blaming yourself."

\--

Before she leaves what seems like most of the kids at the orphanage approach her in a weird, single-file line.

For a second she's convinced the boys were just fattening them up for some Lord Of The Flies-style sacrifice. They definitely look apprehensive enough (and Finn's threat, for all that it wasn't anything she couldn't handle, was far from idle). Then Amir pulls out a small, folded slip of paper and holds it out to her.

"Hey, uh. We wanted to ask..." He starts, only for his voice to crack uncertainly. He coughs and clears it. "Um. Could you give this to Blake? When you see him again?"

"What is it?" She asks as she takes it, resisting the urge to peek inside.

"A letter." Amir fiddles with a button on his shirt. The other boys step forward, one-by-one, and hand them their own notes. Some are written on copy paper, others on scraps torn out from notebooks. One even hands her a clump of post-it notes stuck together.

"Sorry." Emanuel says, sheepishly, as his friend snickers into their hand over his shoulder. "I got carried away."

"We just want to let him know we're thinking about him. I put a reminder in my letter for him to double-check if his stitches are the absorbable ones, 'cause I found out in my health class that-" Tiya is saying to her left. His friend, the taller one always shadowing behind him, begins to sign. "Huh? Oh, Jay says he-"

Harleen's sign is pretty rusty, but being crap at something never stopped her. So she holds up a finger and instead has the boy repeat himself slowly. It takes a little more finger-signing than he'd probably like, but they both break out into a grin when the message gets across.

"Tell him to get some sleep for once." Jay finishes with a knowing smile.

This gives her an idea.

She runs through the building all the way to the back where Finn is in the backyard. He's elbow-deep in his car's guts and bobbing his head to a really loud Russian folk-rock song. Harleen almost yells to get his attention, then thinks better of it when she gets a rather nasty instrusive thought of the young man hitting his head on the roof in shock and splitting his temple open. Blake would _definitely_ yell at her for that.

It doesn't take long for Harleen's enthusiastic waving to catch his eye. He doesn't look exactly _thrilled_ to talk to her (his eyes are rather puffy, to boot), but he turns the radio down and gestures her over. In that short walk over she finally figures out who keeps sneaking peeks at them. At least the kid had been _inside_ the house originally. The top of his curly-coily hair really isn't doing much to hide him behind the decaying bush that's acting as his cover.

So she just pretends she doesn't see a thing.

"I don't think Sherlock's holdin' what you two talked about against you." She offers. It doesn't exactly work as a conversation starter, because the young man just groans. Maybe she's been out of the business a little too long.

"Tiya told you, didn't he?" Finn mutters as he mops off his hands with an oil rag. "God. He's such a fucking gossip." He pauses at Harleen's expression. "...Uh. Frickin' gossip."

"That's better." Harleen grins -- she didn't want to give Joel in the corner over there any bright ideas about the language he should be using. "Now listen...you seem like you really care about everyone here. So I think you'll be careful if I give you Blake's new number."

"Wait, what?" He blinks. "Seriously? Is that _okay?_ "

Harleen puffs a curl out of her eyes and gives him a wry look.

"I mean...we're not exactly dealing with ordinary circumstances here." She looks at her red nails slyly. "You think you can't handle the responsibility?"

She's pegged him just right. His expression turns hard. Without further hesitation he immediately pulls out his phone and holds it out expectantly.

"Just try to be discreet, all right?" She says as she shows it to him. "Delete it afterwards, don't tell anybody about it, recycle. You know."

She can't help but smile at the flicker of hope that passes across Finn's face (and at Joel leaving Trevor in the grass to try and sneak back into the house unseen). Harleen herself has to hurry back inside then _outside_ before Selina gets suspicious. She finds the woman leaning against the mailbox by the sidewalk, brown hair shifting across her shoulders.

With the boys preoccupied with their new secret and day-to-day obligations, the dog is left alone to roll around freely in the overgrown backyard. Finn turns on his music and goes back to working on his car. Jai and Emanuel chat in the kitchen as they clean up the dishes and gather leftovers for Reilly's return. Amir has retreated to his room, as was his wont. One-by-one, the pull of daily life gathers every last boy and young man in its sway. St. Swithin's didn't get to where it was without the sturdiness of its residents weathering the everyday with their typical steadfastness.

Nobody sees Trevor when she suddenly sits up to attention, nor hears her when she growls at something just beyond the fence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! Sometimes certain chapters need a little extra work. ...Chapter _fifty_ no less?!
> 
> At the risk of sounding like a broken record...thank you **so** much for all your kind comments.
> 
> This fanfiction has been an on-and-off experiment for nearly a year now. In fact, if I upload at relatively the same pace (schedule permitting)...it'll be _done_ around the same time I first started uploading. ...After I wrote the first few chapters years back, then forgot about them in my old e-mail. Sheesh! I kind of have no idea how it got this long and involved...but on the other hand I kind of do because I'm having a ton of fun. Fanfiction is my mental, emotional and artistic breather when life gets too heavy.
> 
> Thanks for reading my rambling, inconsistent, bloated, borderline-drabble-y super long fanfiction thing. I hope you'll enjoy it all the way 'til the end!


	51. We Could Fall Apart Together

_Blake doesn't agree with the saying 'you can't teach an old dog new tricks'._

_He wasn't old himself. At least, not by the average person's standards. He was still a decade-ish shy of middle age, but had finally left his twenties into the coveted area simply known as 'adult'. Still, he knew that old habits were as hard to shake as good habits. They could be just as old as the person themselves, with many formed from childhood, even, and it was a wonder some people shook them off at all. More than a few, like his father, had a habit indirectly become the death of them._

_The phrase all but unraveled when he watched Bane, older than him by a good handful of years, navigate the familiar territory of his old habits as well as the slow development of new ones._

_Bane had been shuffling back and forth in the van in a hunch -- still shirtless, mask strapped on, picking things up and handling them in the dark with only his breath and the occasional bird's cry slipping through the quiet. The masked man's morning routine had been glimpsed once before. Even then, Blake had only caught it when he was wrapping up. It had been hard not to feel like a kid as he peered over his blanket, glimpsing something borderline mysterious and being able to get away with it under the illusion of sleep._

_Blake watched as Bane picked up a knife, inspected it, then slotted it smoothly into its holster. Followed his movements when he reached into a case and picked up something his eyes couldn't quite figure out in the poor lighting. He'd begun to wrap it around his left hand and forearm. A brace, maybe? Once he'd finished he took a moment to pause and feel his side, gingerly, where the stitches used to be._

_Then he was convinced he'd actually been dreaming all along, because Bane started murmuring something in sing-song, and Bane didn't **sing**._

 

_Tiger's eye...tiger's eye..._

_Little girl, let your dress swirl..._

_It had startled the detective too much and shattered the illusion. Even with the van window open and spilling some of the cold morning inside, Blake knew Bane could feel the change in the air as he would a change in his own heartbeat. The song immediately cut off when he looked sharply over his shoulder._

_"...Morning." His voice made a poor whisper, still scratchy from sleep._

_"Good morning." Bane had replied, politely, but his previously easy air had vanished. Blake would've wondered where it went, but he'd felt well-rested for the first time in probably months, and the clarity was so jarring he forgot to mind his injuries when he swung his legs over the side of the cot._

_" _Ah._ " He'd tried to lift off his leg, then, though the damage was already done and threatening to pop up later in the day. "Ow."_

_Bane sat down across from him in the weak ray of light struggling to push through the back windows. His face looming in its own heavy, gray shadow. Or, rather, his mask. It had always been a little strange. All this time together, and all the things they've shared, and he'd still never seen his face. Not even when..._

_Blake was scrubbing at his hair and yawning out the rest of his exhaustion when it clicked. As if possessed his hand had slowly dragged down from the top of his head to his mouth...then to the bruises that were starting to throb gently along the sides of his neck. To his throat. To his collar._

_He had pressed curious fingers into them, one-by-one, the part of his brain that knows facts like the sky being blue and Gotham smog conditions giving half of its residents asthma by age eighteen telling him that Bane _doesn't_ take his mask off for things like this...but he was written all over him. In light bruises, still smarting. Harder ones that patterned in the shape of teeth that lingered, then returned with a vengeance, up and down and all over._

_Then...a small cut on the side of his neck. Hovering between the crook of his shoulder and his jawline._

_Bane's eyes had trailed after his hand's movements in a steady scroll. Then they flicked back to catch his gaze. Blake knew, in that short and heavy silence sitting between them like a third person, that he was trying to get a handle on something as basic as greeting a lover in the morning._

_"How fares your leg?" He'd asked, flexing his hands. It wasn't that angry, sudden twitch his fingers did whenever he was losing his temper. The movement was slow and focused. Just a morning stretch._

_"A little stiff, but nothing a walk and some acetaminophen won't cure." Blake replied, rolling his hip experimentally. "Ugh. How's your stomach?"_

_Bane had at first said nothing. Stretched his hands again. More deliberately, like he was testing himself. Shadows danced in and out of the peaks and valleys along his arms, raw power evident in even the tiniest of movements._

_"...Manageable." Then, to his surprise and deep appreciation, "...It is starting to veer off its peak, so I will have to mind it carefully. It will be nice to eat more over the coming weeks. I have had to maintain light and careful meals for weeks now."_

_Blake had started to smile. Then his gaze had wavered from Bane's dark stare to the shadows peppered along his thick neck. A closer inspection at his chest in the poor light and, yes, he apparently clawed him at some point last night. Thin, reddened marks that made him look like he got into a sparring match with a stray cat. It was almost funny. They didn't even have sex (he'd have bruises elsewhere if that were the case), yet the air between them reminded him of a one-night stand between strangers._

_Considering what they talked about just the day prior...sometimes Bane really did seem a stranger. He was a person who made sense in his own peculiar way, had a method to his madness...then he'd throw him for a loop without warning and leave him struggling to pick up where they left off. He couldn't say every new revelation was a gift, either. As much as he wanted to._

_Sometimes they were endearing, such as his social awkwardness around his boys or his competitive spirit with everyday games (he still owed him another chess match). Sometimes...they were truths he'd rather leave buried a little while longer. But that was the nature of any relationship, whether he liked it or not._

_"We will remain here for a while." He had begun, mechanically, and it was the older, wizened Bane speaking. "Border patrol has increased tenfold since Gotham's lockdown and we need time to navigate these new routes and changes in protocol before proceeding. Even the smallest risk that our second bunker could be exposed must be mitigated." Then, with that dark humor that he was growing to love, he added, "They are ever eager to catch me."_

_"Yeah, that won't happen." Blake muttered under his breath. Bane's expression had shifted, strangely, and for a moment the detective couldn't read him for the life of him. Then he'd continued._

_"I have a mere dozen stretched throughout the city feeding us a constant stream of updates. I would have your assistance with the rest making camp here. In accordance with your recovery there are less physically taxing duties you can assist with. We need all the intelligence we can get on the Gotham City Police Department, to start. Whichever information you feel would still be relevant after recent changes. You may then ask Barsad or Abdul as to where you can go about helping with scouting or driving."_

_Then the flow faltered. As if he'd wanted to say something else, but hadn't found a way to string his thoughts together yet._

_"When we are not moving and working...we are training. You are welcome to join us."_

_Bane's brows started to furrow into hard lines, leaving Blake to pick up on the tiny cracks in the man's facade. Months ago it would've been a wild goose chase. All questions and few answers, if that. Now he was learning that Bane lets slip what he cares to...and, very rarely, he genuinely can't channel something back. When he couldn't, it was serious._

_He could've assumed a lot of things. Was it Batman's return? All the injuries he was still recovering from? The kiss they shared last night that was as bewildering as it was incredible?_

_Shit. It was probably all of those._

_"I don't mind figuring you out..." He'd said, aching to reach out to him but sensing it wasn't the time or place. "...but it'd help if you'd let me know what's on your mind."_

_"...I owe my men an explanation." Bane had looked down at his flexing hands. The pain he was trying to hold in flickering on his face as ephemeral as a heat shimmer. "Do you still bear Talia's recording on you?"_

_Blake had already known what was coming._

_"...Yeah."_

_"Bring it with you."_

 

\--

Blake scratches the very short beard starting to frame his face and tries not to jostle the woman next to him with his elbow. He was going to ask to borrow a razor after this was over.

Everyone (what seemed like most of his mercenaries, dozens and _dozens_ dressed heavy for rainy weather) stand to attention in a thick crowd. The sky is gray, though not quite choking, the flow of the clouds evident from the flickers of sunlight that occasionally light up the small clearing they're in.

Bane was good at speeches. Hell, they were his trademark, right along with his iconic mask and his sheepskin coat. But this was one he already struggled with before he'd even said a word. He could tell by the shiftiness of his eyes even as he went about the morning camp's routine with the ease of a professional, giving an order here and double-checking with one of his scouts there. The taut bend to his back. Blake wondered if anyone else noticed. Judging by how on-edge many would get every time he walked by, it was very likely.

"I have not been entirely honest with you..." Bane begins, looking at something and nothing at all in the distance. "...and I was wrong to do so."

Already his mercenaries are looking...uncomfortable. Tense. Exchanging very quick glances in the hopes of getting an idea as to where he was heading with this. It was clearly something that didn't happen very often. Without further preamble Bane beckons him forward. No additional flourishes, nothing cryptic. Nothing at all like how he appeared on television. His hands are folded behind his back and his shoulders are drawn back, almost regal, but the look in his eyes is another story.

"Play the recording."

Blake already has it out. He didn't even want to risk another spare second pulling it up and turning up the volume, for Bane's sake _and_ the heartwrenching decision he has to lay bare in front of the League he's spent years re-building. He holds it out and lets Talia's voice play smooth and crisp amid the trees. It seems none of them have any problem hearing it. Not by the dawning horror, disgust and confusion that passes over their faces.

" _You deserve to know exactly how Gotham will burn._ "

It's funny. Here was _another_ thing that should be a painful memory for him, but he just feels resolute.

The masked man seems to look at all of them, one-by-one. Then he proceeds to tell them of Talia al Ghul's betrayal from the very beginning. He starts first with her desire to blow up the city, adding further context to the voice clip and explaining how Blake got the recording in the first place. He's frank, but not overly detailed on her attempt to kill him back at his old apartment.

Bane emphasizes he had held out hope he could reform her, quietly, where few could see. Instead she had dug claws into some of the weaker members of the League, deep enough to get herself freed and their hideout blown. Their self-centered decisions had been their own, he stresses rather venemously, but she was the flare on a powder keg.

It had all been a white lie -- Talia had been sick, yes, in the mental sense -- but it had, _still_ , been a lie.

"She had planned to detonate the nuclear reactor." Bane says. "Right under our noses."

Real pain starts to cross everyone's faces at this. Blake studies every emotion intently from where he's standing a few feet away from Bane, trying to build a larger picture of who the young woman was through their reactions. She wasn't as close to them as Bane is. That much was clear. There would be disappointment, or fondness, or _something_ else of the sort breaking through. Instead they look unbalanced. Angry.

Khalil, especially, is visibly furious. Rolling his fingers together much like Blake did when he was craving a smoke. There was something personal there, surely. It makes the detective feel a little out-of-place, even though he really shouldn't. He's been intertwined in the lives of _all_ of these people for months now. He has just as much reason to be standing here as any of them.

Abdul is standing neatly to attention. Anarosa is frowning, a heavy crease on her forehead that suggests another more personal pain. Salim is sitting atop one of the vans, rifle slung over his shoulder and staring at Bane with a sad look that suggests his loyalty hasn't been shaken in the slightest. Even a few are looking at _him_ , with...gratitude. None of them say a word. Blake's not sure what he was expecting. People up and quitting? Raising their hand to speak? Yelling?

The League really was built on some stronger stuff. To think...all of that could've changed if even _one_ detail had been altered. If Talia hadn't let her cruelty get the better of her...if she'd just stabbed him in the throat and got rid of him, then and there...it's almost too horrible to fathom. Bane glances sideways at him, at that very moment, and he knows he's thinking something similar.

"There are many we need to apprehend to keep Gotham safe." Bane finishes. "She is ever a priority. We _will_ find her and apprehend her. If you have any questions about this simple fact...then ask them now."

He doesn't say what they'll _do_ when that happens, but none of them press. The very few questions that _are_ raised instead touch on topics of scheduling or how Bruce Wayne could potentially interfere.

It's the first good sign that Bane still has their respect.

 

\--

It's easy to fall into the League's pattern of routine flavored with unpredictability.

He already got a taste of it many months back, with the one major difference being he was their prisoner and they treated him like hot garbage. Even back then, though, he'd sparred with them and helped with a few superficial duties -- locating the alligator man, scouting during Bane's meetings, warming up with the fighters. It had been one of _many_ early clues they were more than just an average gang looking for fifteen minutes of fame in one of the world's most dangerous cities.

A little more than a week in and this dynamic, rough schedule is etched into his bones. There's always something to be done and Blake is eager to help. He helps drive between checkpoints. Sometimes accompanies a scout on their perch when they need to rest. Cleans weapons, checks feeds, chops wood. Any lingering concerns that there could be some worries about him getting special treatment vanish quickly when he's treated like a brother in everything but name.

Everyone spars when they have downtime. Blake gets paired up with Salim today. He's no slouch, but it's clear he's reached his limit after a good half hour of going back and forth with him.

"Quick Step is a perfect name, I think." Salim wheezes, curly hair in limp straggles after their match. "No more, no more."

"Giving up already?" Blake asks, dragging a forearm across his forehead when the sweat threatens to sting his eyes. "Come on, we've barely gotten started."

"Salim!" One yells from the sidelines. A heavyset man with thick, heavily scarred arms that acted as one of a few hand-to-hand combat experts. "You quit too easily."

"I'm a _sniper_." Salim whines at him, leaning on his knees and struggling to catch his breath. "I'm not supposed to be down here at _all_."

"All birds are knocked from their perch eventually." Barsad says. "You need to be just as deadly when that happens."

Blake blows on his knuckles arrogantly, earning a heaving groan from Salim and a round of chuckles from the mercenaries sitting in a loose semi-circle. When it came to aim, Salim had him beat by a literal mile. The man had the eye of a fucking hawk. Brawling, though...Blake had become good at that before he was able to legally drive.

" _Death doesn't care if you're having an off day_." Barsad had once called to both of them, ever playing the part of _everyone's_ personal life coach. " _If you won't find reprieve from your foe, you won't find any here._ "

Another distinction from his time in the force. His past bosses would've told him to take time off and recover from his injury. Maybe get laid, pain permitting. In the League, danger was always around the corner. Practicing while injured (within _reason_ , of course) was their best way of preparing for the inevitable.

Bane has been watching them from the far edges of their makeshift ring, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed. He only occasionally barks out an order for them to switch, but is otherwise as silent and foreboding as a gargoyle on a cathedral. Blake has tried to catch his eye more than once, but he always seems to be looking away at the right moment.

He's been... _off_ ever since he had to denounce Talia in front of his men. The rare time he got to _see_ him, that is. The man would be gone for hours throughout the day, sometimes the _entire_ day, and he'd feel lucky just to exchange a few words before he was either heading off again or tucking away for the night. Considering they shared a cot, it was...awkward at the best of times.

"The League's been around a good while, yeah?" Blake asks when he takes a brief break to chug a bottle of water. Barsad looks up from his tablet -- his gaze temporarily catches on the hickies that still haven't faded, but, thankfully, he doesn't say anything about it. "Do you still maintain old teachings?"

"Yes." Barsad says. "The League does its best when it combines ancient philosophies with new perspectives. This can apply to both technology and psychology, of course."

"Do you ever fight with old-fashioned weapons?" Blake says, trying to sound casual and not completely eager to give his new toy a try. Barsad gives him a slow, lazy smile.

"We have a few masters of old weapons, yes." He says, a little louder than usual. Blake frowns at his odd tone, then looks past his shoulder at Bane, who promptly leans off the tree and strolls into the middle of the circle.

"...Well, then." It's not the best one-liner, no, but he's still trying to figure out if he's excited or terrified at this new development. What did he expect? Bane, in his own words, completely reinvented a centuries-old organization by being its 'best and worst student'. Popping the cap back onto the bottle he heads back in. Bane has already reached into the weapons van, still propped open, and pulled out a thick, wooden staff.

"Just like old times, huh?" He says, lightly, even as he's starting to tense all over with anticipation.

"Yes. Only this time you dress _much_ better." Bane holds it at the ready.

The weapon Alfred gave him has been nestled in his inner pocket -- he's practiced with it, here and there when he had a rare free moment, but _now_ he had someone to practice _with_. He pulls it out, grips it with both hands and twists it into its full size. A scattering of, " _Ooh._ "s surround him. He doesn't glance their way -- he knows Bane would take advantage of even a split second's worth of distraction -- but everyone's clearly impressed.

"I would appreciate it if you didn't taze me." Bane says mildly...before lunging the staff in a thrust so quick Blake's eyes don't follow. Luckily for him, he was at his best when working off impulse. The detective steps smoothly to the left, the air whistling mere centimeters from his side. Bane clicks his tongue in approval and pulls it back.

"Good, good...though you should've thought ahead." Bane gestures with the pole for good measure.

"... _Ow_." Blake grimaces -- he'd realized _after_ the fact that putting all his weight a leg that was shot twice was something he'd regret. Bane's eyes flick down now and again, the only hint of worry in his casual demeanor. ...Maybe he could use this to his advantage.

Bane strikes again, as quick as a goddamn snake, and Blake stumbles to get out of the way. So hard he nearly hits the ground on his good leg. Bane's eyes widen, just a little...and Blake takes that moment (and his much lower position) to sweep _his_ pole right at his ankles with both hands.

To his surprise and joy, Bane actually _falls_.

Not like a traditional enemy, no. He catches himself a _lot_ quicker, for one, shooting out a hand and knee to hit the ground. He also looks less startled and a lot more pissed at his error. In a flash he's back on his feet again, slapping dirt off of his palm and looks at him shrewdly.

"...Taking advantage of my concern." He notes, immediately, and Blake actually shivers at how _quickly_ the masked man put two-and-two together. He could've assumed _anything_ else. "This is the much-lauded end result of your ongoing training?"

"A fighter should use every tool at their disposal." Blake parrots happily before glancing meaningfully at Barsad. The second-in-command, cross-legged atop one of the trucks with his chin in one hand, nods.

"I'm flattered you take our teachings seriously." Bane drawls. "It won't work again."

Oh, that was for sure. Blake didn't exactly want to make Bane regret _caring_ about his health. But it's hard not to feel a little cocksure that he'd cracked the masked man's invincible facade. He's back on his feet, not even bothering to scrub the wet soil off his jeans, and gearing up for more. They trade a few more swipes. A few blocks. Every single movement on Bane's end is almost flippant. Like an afterthought.

Blake trips twice when Bane smacks his ankles and he gets the sneaking suspicion he's putting him back into his place after his little stunt.

"For someone that uses a flexible weapon, you are far too direct." Bane critiques, all but strolling through the small space and forcing Blake to constantly turn to keep facing him. "When you are not displaying visible tells you are standing upright like an aggressive black bear, leaving yourself wide open from multiple angles."

"How many years did you train under Ra's?" Blake asks, keeping his breathing slow and steady. "It seems like there isn't a weapon you don't know how to use."

"Over a decade." Bane says, plainly, though there's a proud swell to his chest.

"Ever fought a bear?" Blake swings an arc at his head. Bane bobs his head down and right back up again, easily, without losing his footing.

"No. You watch too many online videos, I think."

"Ha. That's surprising."

"I have, however, fought a puma."

"...You're _kidding_ me." Blake jumps over a deceptively high swing at his legs, even as the pain lances through his hip. It was either that or falling on his ass. This snap judgement gets a quick nod of approval from both Barsad and the overseer. "A collapsing building? A plane in mid-air? A _puma?_ Is there anything you can't live through?"

Bane's expression goes carefully blank. Then he grips his staff with both hands and swings it like a bat. Blake whips his pole up at the last second. It strikes so hard the reverberation makes his entire body quiver.

" _Focus_."

 

\--

The media attention around Batman's return is, as Harleen would probably put it, batshit insane.

It's hard to find a single news story, mainstream or otherwise, that doesn't mention him. The sighting of The Bat, especially, has pushed the majority opinion into believing he's truly returned, though a not-insignificant fringe group is convinced that it's a _very_ well-off copycat. Blake wonders just how many flying tanks people think are out there.

It got him thinking about what he'd asked Bane all those days back. If his venture to Gotham had been built on decent intentions. His answer had been...disappointing. Bane, in an uncharacteristic moment, had looked almost resentful at this accusation. Angry. Terse. That is, everything but actually _denying_ what he asked. Even knowing that the masked man has put his life on the line on a near-daily basis, _has_ put his life on the line, that he wants nothing more than to pull a corrupt system up by the root...

That even a small part of that would be something as selfish as proving someone _wrong_ , an unchecked superiority-inferiority complex, still...stung. The road to Hell was paved with good intentions and _both_ Bruce and Bane had done their best to be shining exemplars of the phrase.

The only solace he had, which wasn't negligible, was that Bane at least took his concerns seriously. Blake was used to people throwing his words back in his face and that was a line even his violent and strange lover didn't like to cross. Whether or not it'd actually sink in, well. Blake was still just one man against a very old grudge. Only time would tell which would win out.

Bane has his shirt off this time. His bruises have faded, but they still bear greenish tinges as he stretches his arms as high as they will go. The weather today is nice. It's actually _nice_. Not too cold, not too hot, just a little breezy with clouds passing intermittently over a cheerful sun -- he spends so much time in Gotham's urban wasteland he forgot what a true spring felt like. The mood is easy around the camp, with more than a few mercenaries sharing cigarettes and lounging alongside their menial tasks. Like usual, everyone is watching when they can.

"I'll try not to look like a big, angry bear this time around." Blake squats down, stretching out one leg as far as he can before curling it and stretching the other much more carefully. It's starting to get better, but he wasn't going to push his luck. "Speaking of which...you ever gonna tell me about that puma story?"

The other League members go a little quiet. Judging by their wildly differing expressions, it seems some knew the story and others didn't. This was going to be good.

"Oh, yes." Bane tilts his head to one side. "It was nearly four years ago as the burgeoning League and I were setting camp in the Andean mountains. Just fifty of us, a scattering of defectors from Ra's' maniacal teachings. We were carrying out a coup throughout three neighboring towns and making the later transition from one hiding hole to the other, much like we're doing here."

"I know this story." He can hear Barsad muttering to someone just within earshot. "It was when I first moved out of the country and joined full-time. It was a shock..."

"Barsad had lived a rather comfortable existence in the capitalist loop, yes." Bane agrees with a small and honest smile. "At least his Russian upbringing prepared him for the cold. The hours of trekking through ice, blistering winds and temperamental animals. We always made precautions to discourage unwanted guests, but life is nothing guaranteed. A storm forced us to delay...and a puma came upon me when I went out to collect firewood."

Bane starts to stalk. Not like he's done before, not in the least. It's a deliberate and careful circling that makes the hair on the back of Blake's neck prickle.

"It moved much like this, in the woods." He says, tone lilting over his nearly-silent footsteps -- Blake had always thought his masked looked like the gaping fangs of a wild animal and it seems that initial impression wasn't about to go anywhere anytime soon. "Attempting to reason with my size. Perhaps it thought _me_ a bear. Wildcats are clever and they normally avoid prey that would give it quarter, you see. This one was likely hunger-starved."

"Sometimes I think you're fucking with me." Blake minds his leg as he tries to keep a little distance between them, stepping on it gingerly but not favoring it overmuch. "You've got that kind of voice which could make _any_ old bullshit sound convincing."

"Would you like a demonstration?" Bane says, eyes glinting dangerously.

"I don't know." He flexes experimentally. Bane's gaze focuses shamelessly on his arms and he doesn't bother holding back an impulsive grin. "I'm a little smarter than a puma."

"You are also a little weaker than a puma." He rolls his neck with an audible _pop_. "Don't be so quick to neglect the wisdom of animals."

In a flash Bane is _right_ in front of him. His muscle memory has him holding up his arms to block, but the masked man knows him far too well and has tackled him to the ground. He hits his back and would've hit his head, too, if Bane didn't have it cushioned on his forearm. His other hand, though, has snaked through the gap to grab his throat.

Just like Bane, he goes from mannerly to malicious in a heartbeat.

"I held its neck, like this, when it pounced on me from the top of a rock perch." Bane says. "Should it twist, just so and out of my grasping fingers, it could've torn out my throat. It must have been a loner, because a mother with children to feed would have been another story."

Blake's heart is hammering at a thousand miles per hour and it's not just because Bane is literally in a position where he could kill him with one twist of his wrist. Aside from sleeping on the cramped cot (which was an on-and-off thing, anyway), this was the closest they've been in days. He can barely swallow past Bane's massive hand.

"Well, don't spare me the grisly details." He says, squirming a little to test his give...and hide his growing boner. Bane's groin is warm and firm and pressing into him so nicely it's really hard to speak. Or think. Or do anything other than just lay there and enjoy it, really.

"Just like you keep a knife in your boot at all times..." Bane murmurs, a husky timber to his voice that wasn't there before. "...so, too, did I always have a knife on my person."

Fuck, now he's leaning down to demonstrate and he's seriously wondering if Bane has any idea what he's doing in front of fuck-knows how many of his mercenaries. He can't see them in the all-encompassing shadow of the man curling over him, but he _can_ smell the sting of sweat...

"As I kept it mere inches away from leaving me a ragged corpse on the frost-coated ground I pulled my knife out and shifted my grip..." He grips his side in a motion that is just _barely_ above feeling him up. "...and slid my knife through its ribs. Five times I repeated this, filled with adrenaline I had been, though it had already died by the second."

Blake is starting to grow hot with embarrassment or arousal or some nauseating mixture of the two. The man's breath is dusting along his ear, warm and promising-

He suddenly hooks his right leg in Bane's, unbalancing him on his other side to roll him over. His victory hardly lasts more than a second. The masked man uses their momentum to roll _right_ back on top of him, straddling him firmly beneath the full force of his weight. The sun is still at his back, but he knows the man is grinning.

"Good try."

Bane is out the rest of the day and night. Blake tries to think of the politest explanation as to why one of his cleaning rags is out of commission the following morning.

 

\--

He wakes up in the middle of the night from a nightmare.

Unlike the last ones, he barely remembered the details. Nothing but the sour taste of a fucked imagination clogging the back of his tongue. It was a break, sure, but he couldn't shake feeling ill-at-ease for no reason at all. Shifting off of Bane's chest as carefully as he could (which wasn't easy in the cramped space), he found himself a corner of the van to pull out his phone and look at photos of the boys.

Somewhere between looking at a group shot at the park and a candid snapshot of Joel with his hands elbow-deep in a bowl of batter Bane speaks.

"...Can't sleep?"

Blake looks over the white glow of his screen into the surrounding black. The cot _creaks_ , momentarily, as Bane makes himself comfortable. A lonely ache pulls through the detective's chest. It actually hurts. More than the dream and more than the bullet wounds piecing themselves back together bit-by-bit in his hip and thigh.

"Something like that." He says. "Sorry for waking you."

Blake feels like a little wound-up ball of misery and nerves, but the pull of a warm body and the chance at comfort is too hard to resist. So he drags himself back to his feet and makes his way to the cot.

"May I see?"

Blake doesn't want to flash the light in his eyes, so he just hands it to him and lets him sort it out as he situates himself back onto the mattress. Bane scrolls through the photos casually, pausing for a few seconds on each one, though his expression is difficult to read even in the phone's glare.

"...he won second place at the faire for that." Blake explains when he lands on a photo of Tiya. The boy is wearing his school spirit polo and balancing a cheap plastic award on his head with visible pride. "Some kids get disappointed when they come in second, but he's always been a glass half-full sort. He came from an immigrant family, like mine, and they didn't really get a choice not to."

Bane grunts his agreement. Blake nestles his head beneath his chin, arm draped over the comforting rise-and-fall of his chest. It already feels better sharing this instead of keeping it to himself in the dark. Bane otherwise remains silent, but like always, he can tell he's listening intently.

"That's Jay at soccer practice." The lanky boy is running across a green field during a rare sweltering summer day, gearing up to kick the ball just inches in front of him. "He's crazy good at it. Already has recruiters wanting to sign him up for championships. No joke. Told me one time that he feels like he can be himself on the field. Doesn't have to worry about reading lips or feeling like he doesn't fit in. It's just him and the ball, in his words."

He moves his mouth idly against Bane's neck. Trying to bleed out the rest of the pain in little physical gestures. Bane's pulse flutters beneath his lips. He kisses it, then glances back to the screen.

"Ha, oh. God. That's Finn and I at the Christmas Eve event. Every year Swithin's does a fundraiser to help out other orphanages in the city. A sort of give-and-take." He nips him in warning. "Don't ask about the bunny ears."

"A shame." Bane's voice rumbles pleasantly through his teeth. "I wanted to know about the bunny ears."

"Of course you do. Well, they were a dare. A dare I lost because Finn has this...I don't know, almost supernatural sixth sense for winning outcomes. You know, nobody ever flips coins or does rock-paper-scissors with him because of it. You'd think I would learn, but I'm not superstituous, so."

"Stubborn." Bane snorts. He sounds almost fond. "And the dare?"

"Well. We had this really good eggnog. So good that someone got the bright idea it'd be funny if we blended it with a bunch of other holiday shit. Fruitcake, gingerbread cookies, leftover turkey. So, go figure, Finn and I were the gutsy ones. Whoever drank all of it and kept it down didn't have to do the yearly door-to-door. You know, handing out flyers and distributing homemade treats and all that. I mean, we do it because it's tradition, but mucking through slippery sidewalks and cold weather isn't exactly _fun_."

"Surprising. I thought most Gothamites would be indifferent to the cold." He murmurs, tired yet interested. "Who won?"

"Finn did. Little punk. I made the mistake of drinking alcohol beforehand and ended up vomiting behind the orphanage an hour later." He covers his face and sputters a laugh into his palms. "I had to wear those to work _and_ send them photos after. I didn't hear the end of it for weeks. Wait, don't-"

Bane has already opened up his gallery folder and started digging deeper into his photo album. A few flicks of his index finger and he's pulled up the photo of him at his previous job where he part-timed as a bike courier. He's wearing his standard jacket over his jeans and sneakers, looking generally professional except for the obnoxious crooked bunny ears wrapped over his helmet and fastened down with scotch tape.

"I imagine that smile wasn't good for business." Bane says, voice warming with humor. Yeah, there's no smile. Blake is just plain _scowling_ at someone just off-camera -- it was his co-worker, who had been a rather mischievous sort always trying to get a rise out of him. Blake feels the smile on his face slowly drain away to nothing. He lays his cheek against Bane's pec and lets out a soft sigh.

"...I miss them."

"Mm."

"...You said you had a cousin in Mexico." Blake starts, haltingly, making it clear he'll back off it's something he'd rather avoid. Bane just nods. "Did you have any other family?"

"My father is still alive." He yawns, softly, the mask creaking slightly from the pull. "I wanted to kill him. When I found out he had avoided imprisonment only to end up in what you would call a...dead-end job...and no way out of the debt he had accumulated over the years, well. It proved an unexpected inspiration. His relatives had disowned him, mother and cousins and grandfather, and I saw little reason to reach out to them. Revenge had been easier to figure out than familial bonds."

"Were you afraid to?" Blake asks. He can feel the characteristic stiffening in Bane's posture, the instinctive insult he associates with weakness. It's faint, though. Because he's tired, because he's starting to move past it, he can't tell.

"I had Talia to take care of and my training to attend to." He says. "There was simply no reason to reveal myself."

"What about the rest of your mother's side?"

"...Dead or gone."

The phone buzzes as he and Bane are looking at an old photo of St. Trevor standing proudly in front of the orphanage's renovation decades ago. Reilly's name blinks insistently.

Wait... _Reilly?_ How did he get his new number? His throat clutches as all the worst possibilities rise to mind. Is he going to tell him to finally stay away from St. Swithin's? That he's a liability, at _best_ , and he'd never be able to see his boys unless it was behind bars? Maybe this wasn't Reilly at all and his phone was compromised by a third party or something else entirely. Oh, fuck, if someone got to him-

Bane holds the phone out, but he doesn't take it. Instead he reaches out and, hand trembling, presses the speaker button as it goes to voicemail.

" _...Blake. I don't know where you are, but I hope you're getting a good night's sleep_."

A faint _shuffle_. Blankets, maybe. Or papers. His mind sticks to each tiny detail like tacks onto notes.

" _Barbara told me about your friends dropping by. One of them gave Finn your new number. Shame I didn't get to meet them...the boys seemed to like them a lot._ " A long, slow sigh. " _Voicemail won't let this be very long, so I'll try to make this quick. I don't know what's going on. I really, really don't know what's going on. I'm scared, Blake. I'm scared for you and the kids and..._ " Another _shuffle_. He's probably picking things up and setting them down again to soothe his nerves.

Blake puts a hand over his eyes, starting to shake. Bane holds the phone steady in one hand, the other moving down to curl firmly around his waist.

" _We'll figure this out. I know you. You're a good soul, Blake. You wouldn't do something like this. I want you to see the rest of the boys grow up, they...they need you. We don't have much money or...I mean, Barbara could try and pull some strings, as much as she can with the whole conflict-of-interest and whatnot..._ "

Even now, as tired and stretched-thin as he was, he was trying to help. Blake _wants_ to reach out and answer the call, more than he wants to fucking _breathe_ , but his limbs don't move. He just stares at Reilly's portrait on the phone. It was a quick snapshot he took of him while napping on the living room couch a few years back, characteristically grumpy and with much more of his hair.

" _Ah, hell. I've never been very good at this_." Reilly mutters, then he sighs, shakily, and his words grow muffled like he has a hand on his face. " _I won't tell anyone if you call. I promise. Just...please get in touch soon. I know you don't pray anymore, but I don't think this is what He's got planned for you. I don't think that at all. We-_ "

The voicemail cuts off abruptly with a smooth _beep_.

The only thing that breaks through the buzz in Blake's mind is some weird, strained noise. He realizes, belatedly, that it's coming from him. Bane slowly moves the phone from one hand to the other and lets it drop softly to the floor just beneath the cot. He seems a little unsure what to do next, a tentative hand on his hip. He opens his mouth to speak, then crushes his eyes shut when nothing comes out, giving up and pressing his face into his chest. Like he can drown out the world with just the sound of his heartbeat.

Bane is still at first. Then he pulls him to rest fully on his chest and stomach, wrapping both arms around his torso and holding him tightly. Holding on until he finally sinks to a dreamless sleep.

\--

The Bat was caught surveying the area not a mile away from where they are. A storm was right around the corner.

Everyone could feel it. Everyone had an ear to the ground, at all times, and he was no different. His browsers were always open to live feeds. He regularly refreshed local news stations and cycled through the bullshit during a free moment. Just like the screen on his phone, he kept everything he had to do in a series of tabs in his mind.

Find Scarecrow. Find Talia. Help Gordon. Reunite with his boys. Survive.

With more stories than ever of people going crazy, being hospitalized for unexpected attacks, neighborhoods going 'dark'...he was never lacking for motivation.

The League Of Shadows thrived on waiting for the right moment to strike. Blake always preferred action over inaction. There was so much that needed to be done, at any given time, and it was a habit he'd gotten hammered into him before he hit puberty. So he channeled all his energy and doubt into training as a compromise between the two.

"One more?" Bane asks his mercenaries after another sparring round. They bellow back, eagerly -- these had all but become their own personal spectator sport. Training was one thing, but watching Bane and his _boyfriend_ duke it out in increasingly extravagant matches was another, clearly. He turns to Blake, sweat beading along his brow from the exertion. "You may choose the weapon this time."

Now _this_ was a new development. He was generally treated as just another member (even though he technically _wasn't_ , for more reasons than one) and, as such, had to roll with the punches. Choose a weapon? Hell, Bane was a menace with just his hands _alone_. He's seen the way he handles knives. Blunt objects. Entire _tables_. Although he's never seen him fire a gun (indeed, that was another weird commonality between him and Batman), he doubted it was because of a lack of experience.

Come to think of it, he hasn't seen him use...

"Well." Blake starts after deliberating for a few seconds. "I _did_ always want to see you use a sword."

He expects Bane to tell him they don't keep swords alongside their bombs and semi-automatics. He doesn't expect Bane to all but _grin_ , gesture at Barsad, then hold out his hand behind him. Blake's jaw drops when Barsad pulls an honest-to-fuck _sword_ out of the back and hands it to him hilt-first.

He only remembers to snap his mouth shut when Barsad walks over and hands him one that's nearly identical.

"Oh." He says when the weight startles his arm into wobbling. "Do I, uh...get a shield?"

Barsad looks like he's barely holding back laughter as he walks away. Bane holds his swordtip to eye level.

"En garde."

He has no idea what the hell he's doing. Fisticuffs were all well and good. Pole fighting was reasonable enough, even if he was a little lacking in hard experience. This? Shit, he may as well have been handed a _butterfly net_ for all that the sword fits into his hand. It's a beautiful creation, simple in design yet very well-maintained. The sunlight all but glitters along the blade.

He tries to treat it like a particularly large pocketknife, but that doesn't work. It's _way_ too heavy. Bane has one arm folded behind his back, his stance the very image of the classic how-to illustrations he sometimes picked out in old manuals. He steps forward and swings in a smooth, horizontal arc. Blake jumps back. The next step is _much_ swifter when he swings again. He tries to jump back, _again_ , only to nearly fall backwards into the ring of mercenaries. He's pushed back in, not roughly, but he can't help but feel embarrassed anyway.

There's only so much running he can do in his limited space, so the third swing he holds the sword out in a poor imitation of better swordsmen and drops the damn thing trying to block. Bane _tut-tuts_ cheerfully.

"Ah, it seems like you and your sword aren't getting along very well." He says, eyes curving mischieviously as he hastily picks it back up out of the dust. "Perhaps you should tell it one of your many jokes."

"Oh, ha- _ha_. Trash-talking now that you're in your element." Blake huffs, rolling the handle between both hands to try and stave off the vibration still tickling up and down his arms. Maybe he could pretend the sword was a replacement for his bum leg. Or some other such cryptic nonsense probably spewed by old fighting masters.

"I am _always_ in my element." Bane says, clearly enjoying every second to show off after his flub from the other day. Blake puts on a sour expression, but, despite the fact he's completely clueless, he's enjoying himself, too. The man is a living war machine, physical malice and decorum blended into one eerie package. Watching him is a pleasure. In more ways than one.

He mimics Bane's stance and balances more on the balls of his feet. He's more than a little sure a glint of approval passes over Bane's face when he does. He's _also_ more than a little sure that the League members are placing bets where they think he can't see.

"Salim, you better not be betting against me." He calls out with a grin...only to scowl when the man looks away guiltily. "Wait, _seriously?_ Come on-"

Blake stumbles back when Bane swipes at him.

"Focus, John."

Fuck if the man didn't look a little overeager to test him. There's a manic glint to his eyes when he stabs through the air and goads him into jumping or ducking away. Blake tries every trick he knows. He feints, again and again, in an attempt to get him onto a pattern. It doesn't work. The moment he tries something else Bane is on top of it, slashing at the air and making him stumble backwards. Fuck, he could just rip him open. He gives him an exasperated look when he gets _way_ too close to cutting him and the bastard just keeps smiling behind his mask.

"Where is that good, ripe anger, John Blake?" He says, about as sweet as a cup of cold brew. "You are beset by your calculating mind. Let your survivor's instinct guide your hand. It has only your eyes to follow."

His temper flares. What did he _think_ he was doing? Blake impulsively tries a more aggressive approach, swinging and jabbing in a flurry, but Bane all but dances back from each one. Never too close to the gaggle of soldiers creating the circle. It's as if he has eyes on the back of his head for all that he keeps just enough distance. He doesn't swipe at him again. Blake realizes, way too late, that he's trying to tire him out.

"You would exhaust yourself before your opponent even lands a hit on you." He says, the mirth in his voice making it clear he knows Blake has already reached this conclusion. Sheesh. Maybe he did like hearing the guy laugh, but not when it was at his expense.

"Says the hot air balloon." Blake grits out, trying to figure out if he's cheered at this passionate side or just annoyed. "You trying to talk me to death?"

"At least your words need no further sharpening." Bane soothes.

Blake liked anything he could wrap his mind around and unravel. Fighting, mysteries, board games. Didn't matter. It's how his brain worked and it made him feel more whole. So he lets himself start analyzing everything he's learned, from top-to-bottom. He's already played a few of his hands. He lacked Bane's experience. His leg feels like shit.

He hasn't, however, played _all_ his hands.

Horizontal blocks work best for slices. Thrusts for killing blows. Jabs for movement. Keep on the balls of the feet to maximize movement, put all the weight in the legs to reduce the risk of being bowled over. Bane has called him a fast learner more than once and Bane was going to find out just how true that was.

Blake swings and Bane raises his sword, _still_ in one hand, to block. Sparks hit the air. Blake doesn't give him a moment to recover. He's already bulling into his space. Swinging at him, jabbing at him, again and again. His blood thrills with victory when Bane has no choice but to use both hands to handle the sword to slow him down. The dozens of mercenaries surrounding them are starting to cheer.

Unfortunately, that meant he's _twice_ as strong.

He has to work quickly before that almost inhuman strength gets him pinned to the ground like last time. Bane's eyes widen when Blake grapples his swordhand. It's one of the last things the man would expect, what with his weight and height putting most professional wrestlers to shame. Blake then stomps down on his blade -- he hopes to yank it from his grasp, but Bane doesn't let go, the point instead pushing into the dirt and momentarily sticking it firm.

His face is right up to Bane's mask in their strange position. He can see the mingled surprise and fierce appreciation in his eyes...which makes him feel all the worse for when he hits him right across the face with his elbow. He makes sure to get the mask, at least. Enough to knock him back a little. One clean _strike_ -

A sharp _hiss_ pierces the air.

Oh, fuck. Blake yanks back. Bane raises a hand to his mask, eyes round with rage. The mercenaries have all gone quiet.

"...Shit." He breathes. "Sorry."

Barsad's concerned frown hovers just beyond his line of sight. With a trembling hand Bane reaches up and slowly twists, then pushes the wire back in place. He straightens slowly, trembling with adrenaline or anger he's not sure...only to bend forward in a half-bow.

"...Well done."

Blake stares wordlessly as he steps out of the ring and flicks his hand at someone. Another member immediately takes his place.

He doesn't see him until late that evening, when everyone is switching up rounds or tucking away for the night. Bane waves away his attempt at another apology (a little brusquely, though Blake just drops it) and doesn't sleep. He settles across from the cot in the dark and knits. Blake listens to the rising and falling cadence of his breath until he can't keep his eyes open any longer.

The following morning he sits up with a new knitted blanket thrown over him.

\--

One night Blake thinks he's at the orphanage.

One of the boys is calling his name from the kitchen. At first it's Jai asking him about dinner. He sounds excited about a new recipe, something Emanuel showed him online that he's been dying to try for weeks. Then the voice pitches higher, much higher, like Joel's, and starts asking about dessert. He has no clue why he can't place who's _speaking_. He tries to follow it across the dining area, then to the living room, then to the hall, but every corner he rounds the shifting voice drifts further away. He's so startled he snaps his eyes open.

It's worse than a nightmare. He'd rather the car crash. Or the sidewalk covered in bloody playing cards. Or the terrible warmth of his grandmother's hand against his cheek. Anything but this.

The detective almost falls off the cot trying to get off in his haste. He can tell Bane wakes up by his irritated grunt, clearly not happy about being jostled at too early an hour. His poor mood doesn't last, though. The masked man can tell something's wrong immediately, because Blake's feet haven't even accustomed to the van's smooth floor all over again before he's reaching out and curling fingers around his arm. Not to keep him there...no. To _steady_ him. A firm, yet yielding grip that says more than words ever could.

Blake already hates himself for yanking away. Heart thrumming against his chest he uses the shame to fuel his fumbling hands into pulling on his pants, then his shoes, then his coat. He's in such a hurry he doesn't remember to shut the van door and, even when he doubles back, he shuts it far too hard. The night guards stare when he storms through the camp, but they don't stop him.

It's bitterly cold outside, but the anger burning up his chest warms him more than his coat does as he walks through the stiff grass and pushes through the tight cluster of trees. He wants to escape, fucking _run_ or even swim somewhere far away, but hell if he knows where to start. Where to go. So he walks...and walks...and walks. Down weak and overgrown trails. Up and over fallen trees. Through thin, half-frozen brooks. Walks until his bad leg is screaming and the camp is who-fucking-knows-where.

If he had his phone he'd probably call his boys. Even though he _knows_ he shouldn't. It makes him glad he forgot to bring it, in hindsight, though that _also_ means he truly has nothing to distract him from the static that's been building in his head since he woke up.

He smokes the leftover cigarettes in his pocket and spends too much time grinding the ashes into the dirt with his heel. When the ache starts to consume him from head-to-toe, starts to boil over, he finds the nearest tree and hits it. Again and again and _again_ until he's muffling his screams into the fold of his arms and grinding his fingers so deep into the bark it pops the tender skin beneath his nails.

The moon is out. Half-full in an unfettered, glowing white. It just barely outlines the shrubbery and branches around him in a weak gray, enough that he can pick out a spot to slump down and _finally_ rest when he doesn't have any more energy to spare. If the after-effects of Crane's delusional toxin were the least bit kind he'd at least have a friendly hallucination to keep him company until he fell asleep, but...well. Crane was the furthest thing from kind.

As he drifts off to sleep a voice calls out to him. Somewhere beyond the trees, then somewhere past the quiet, blue-tinged hallways of St. Swithin's in the early morning. Maybe it's Amir or Joel. Maybe it's Scarecrow. This time, he leans his back against the rock, less bumpy and mossy and more like a smooth wall soft with old plaster, and doesn't budge.

_"Blake, what did you **do?!** "_

_He's trying to wipe his hands off, but it clings, in his hair and across his face and all over his shirt, even as some scatters off to litter the floor in red flakes. The old Father had been patting him all over, trying to find out if he was hurt, but now he's pulling away from him and holding his mouth like he's about to be sick._

_"I didn't mean to." His words crumble like glass in his mouth. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry-"_

Bane finds him in that same spot the following morning, when the dawn is only just starting to seep a pale yellow over the treetops.

The weak _crunch_ of damp leaves on twigs jerks him into wakefulness. For a chilling moment he has no idea where he is. He urges his stiff limbs to prepare for a fight, reaching hastily into his pockets for a gun that isn't there, a dozen bad memories rising to the surface like a hangover. Then he looks at the two dark combat boots just inches away. Then up and up and up to the black mask gazing down at him.

Most people would start an argument then and there about how worried they were. Yelling about all the doomsday scenarios in their heads about someone who just wandered off into the wilderness with no means of contact, and he expects it and braces himself for it. But Bane wasn't like most people. His anger was more often defined by his lack of words. The sour filing of his breath against the mask instead fills the cold air in a long, foreboding metronome.

Blake is freezing and sore all over from his less-than-ideal sleeping spot, but the whirlwind of emotion that swept him away has finally shrunk down to something he can make sense of. There's a nasty crook in his neck and his teeth won't stop rattling together, but at least, finally, he feels like he can think again.

Bane's eyes assess him quickly. They flick to his dirty jeans, then to his swollen hands. He doesn't return his hug. Like the dew-soaked rock that acted as his pillow for the rest of his night he's utterly rigid and unresponsive beneath Blake's arms, something that makes him ache all over again. He also doesn't reply when Blake gives him a tired apology, simply turning on his heel to make his way back through the trees.

He does, however, wait when Blake needs to catch up. Lingers patiently whenever he falls behind, and lets him lean on his arm from time-to-time when his injured leg gives him trouble on the uneven trail.

\--

When his leg and hip finally enter the phase of 'still fucking hurts but he can walk on it well enough and sometimes take a piss without leaning against a tree' he starts pulling his weight outside of the camp.

He joins Anarosa on a supply run just outside of Gotham's southern docks. It's not too far, not when their little area still functioned as a transitional area between the second hideout and the city. There was still information to gather and areas to disrupt before they officially settled in the mountain borders. The League has used brute force before, and successfully, but they could always be followed. They wear civilian clothing and keep their heads low all the while, even when they head back.

Blake is staring out the window to catch the last bit of Gotham's towering buildings before they vanished when a familiar soundbite catches his attention. Anarosa is watching a clip of the mysterious 'Batgirl' with the others.

"She has nice form." Salim says over the older woman's shoulder. "Very fluid. A natural."

"Is that _all_ you think she has, Salim?" Anarosa responds slyly, causing the young man to redden visibly.

Blake can't help but snicker his agreement. Of course the League's eccentric sniper would have a mild crush on an overnight vigilante, of all people. While the 'Batgirl' certainly wasn't the only one out there with an axe to grind, she certainly was one of the most popular. It was clear what she lacked in experience she made up for with discipline (and a hell of a fashion budget). It was a line he knew all too well, seeing as he was the inverse.

He just hoped she was more than someone that just wanted a bit of fame before the 'hubbub' died down.

"What name would you have, Crocodile Hunter?" Salim says in some poor attempt at a conversation change, light brown skin flushed a beet red. "If you were some big Gotham hero."

Blake grins.

He excuses himself to go out and take a piss when they arrive back at camp...then actually takes one because he's not _that_ much of a liar. When he's done he pulls out his phone and calls Harleen to ask for a little extra help.

He's had his fill of insurmountable odds.

Convincing Bane to put aside his grudge, even temporarily, would be astronomically difficult. Convincing Bane _and_ Bruce _and_ Selina to shelve _all_ their grudges until the immediate danger was over? He needed help. So he asks Harleen to drop some clues to Selina that he was going to try and stave off a potential fight between Bruce and Bane by getting them to team up -- whether or not she wanted to tell the full truth or another set of white lies was up to her discretion.

She may be an oddball who's a little too quick to jump to violence, but she wasn't stupid. In fact, sometimes he wondered if she pretended to be more bubbleheaded than she _actually_ was to keep people guessing.

" _I don't know, Sherlock._ " She muses after he's finished. " _That's...a really **tall** order._ "

"I know." He says. "But I wouldn't ask without good reason. I know Selina and Bruce have something going on-"

" _Wait, what?_ " She honks a laugh through the phone so loud he has to hold it at arm's length. " _Nah, I was talkin' about tellin' Selina to _do_ somethin' whatsoever._ "

"Wait." He pauses to make sure he's hearing correctly. "You mean it? You'll try?"

" _Sure. Just can't guarantee anything._ " He can practically see her face splitting into one of her characteristic and borderline maniacal grins. " _Good luck with the Bane Train._ "

\--

He'd never been afraid of public speeches. Why would he? He had to deal with poverty, too many adults who found him a complete nuisance no matter what he did, day-to-day violence that poorly-managed orphanages cultivated like a virtual pig pen. Talking in front of a crowd, in comparison, had been nothing. Yet he's feeling some of that stomach-curling anxiety at the prospect of finally sharing with Bane his idea.

Bane wouldn't go berserk like he did at the library. That's what he keeps telling himself, because nothing has suggest him of otherwise. Nasty images flash back and forth across his mind when he walks through the length of the camp and makes his way to where the masked man was said to be.

Barsad, Khalil and Bane are inside a small tent away from the vans. He catches a glimpse of their conversation -- something about failing weapon stock -- when they pause and look his way as he peers inside. The masked man is halfway through field stripping a rifle on the table in front of him.

"I'm sorry. Is this a bad time?" Blake says, hastily. He doesn't want to seem like he's making a mockery of their privacy. He saw firsthand just how well _that_ sort of thing turned out back during...well, every job he's ever had.

"Is it urgent?" Barsad asks. He must see the honesty on his face when he nods, because he asks Khalil to give them a moment's peace. The mercenary bows his head and walks out briskly. The moment he's out of the door, he cuts right to the chase.

"We need to meet with Bruce Wayne."

Bane goes completely still. Barsad frowns in confusion. The nervousness that had been simmering beneath the surface shoots through him and makes him tingle with dread.

"... _What?_ " Bane eventually says, squinting mightily, like he's not sure if he's picked the worst possible time to crack a joke.

"Just hear me out." Blake says, hurriedly, even though he doesn't need to. Bane has _already_ slipped into that quiet mode that was always much more unnerving than if he'd said anything. A shadow falls over his eyes as he dips his head a little and stares him down with a look that says, ' _You better follow this up with something good._ '

"You've been having a tough time finding Scarecrow and Talia. Just like you, they're off-the-grid and hiding out who _knows_ where. I have no doubt you'll find them, eventually, but they're still doing damage. All those neighborhoods being walled off _during_ lockdown? You know it's connected to them. Imagine how much quicker we could find them with Bruce's resources and expertise."

He takes a moment to swallow and catch his breath. Bane's wrath is practically radiating through the tent like a brown note. Just like a brown note, he's sure anyone else would've shit themselves already. Barsad's eyes keep flicking to him nervously.

"He knows her by her previous alias." He continues, slowly and carefully like he's talking someone down from firing a round into a person's head. "Miranda Tate. He mentioned her just once while I stayed with him, but that could be enough of a lead."

"Did you tell him her true identity?" Bane asks, voice tight.

"No. If I did I wouldn't be here asking about it. Do you think I would suggest this lightly, Bane?" He's not begging him. Not even close. They're partners. Even though he felt out of his league at times (and still wasn't truly a _member_ of this League, not entirely), there was one thing he knew. Gotham needed help _now_.

"You don't seem to understand the position I'm in." Bane asks, not taking his eyes off him as he strips the rest of the gun down to its barest components with ease. "I have already risked losing their composure for my mistake. To seek some sort of feel-good _treaty_ with Bruce Wayne on top of all that-"

"The fuck? This isn't feel-good. It's _smart-_ "

"-would very likely tip those scales. I have _Barsad_ to thank for this, mind you." Bane talks over him, infuriatingly, barely even raising his voice. "Had he not already curried my men's favor I might as well have had another Rubio on my hands. You ask this not just of me, but of him."

Barsad looks down. Something like appreciation flickers across his face, though there's still a cautious bent to his shoulders.

"...What?" Blake pauses, though his heart is still pounding angrily. "Who's Rubio?"

"One of our previous members. I trained him personally a few years ago." Barsad interjects, softly. "He and a handful of others betrayed us. Where he is now...I don't know. They were swayed by Talia right under our nose. With what, I don't know, but it was enough to have them attempt to steal the reactor and make off with it. In that short timespan they swayed a few to their side, no doubt with similar promises. All of them carried remote-controlled bombs inside them."

Barsad doesn't need to finish. Not with the look on his face. Blake's throat temporary tightens with horror.

"At the risk of sounding redundant..." There's no characteristic smugness to Bane's voice. He sounds aggravated more than anything. "...what you suggest is tenuous, at best."

"You know, I don't know if you get the position _I'm_ in." Blake is desperately trying to reign in his frustration, especially with the knowledge of all the people they both have to manage. "When it comes to Talia and all she's already done and _tried_ to do to Gotham, I've bent over backwards for you. I kept her identity a secret. I didn't take her recording to Gordon or Waller. I pulled the wool over Bruce's eyes in the hopes you'd have my back and get us all through this crisis. I deserve this chance, Bane. After _all_ the times I picked up after you."

"Is this your attempt at browbeating?" Bane asks, humor as dry as a bone.

"This is my attempt at _compromise_." Blake shoots back. If they weren't talking about literal life-and-death scenarios, he would almost think they were bickering like an old married couple.

"...He knows I want him dead. He also spent many months confined in my old home." He says with a haughty tilt to his head. "How cooperative do you think he'll be?"

"He may be a self-important jackass, but he still doesn't want to see Gotham blown up or slowly driven crazy. It's worth a try. I'm not expecting you to become friends." He replies, then, almost helplessly, he turns to Barsad. "Come on. You know I have a point here."

It's a little childish. He knows. But Bane was so fucking _stubborn_ when it came to this man. Stubborn and violent and wholly unpredictable. Barsad watches him for a long, long time.

"...I think very little of Bruce Wayne." He begins. "He is far too similar to the people I tried to leave behind when I joined the League. People who feel their money exonorates them, lifts them up and beyond those they are meant to help. We kept one of these very types of men under our care for months. Dr. Pavel. The nuclear physicist who originally helped create the reactor we fashioned into a bomb."

That's right. Bane mentioned him back when they were fighting in the forest. Blake had only ever heard about Dr. Pavel once before. It had been just another name flashing by in news stories overrun with tales of kidnapping and espionage.

"I doubt you'll be able to convince him of a temporary truce. For all that he traipses around in the shadows and views himself a representative of justice in an unjust world, he is far too tolerant of liars, murderers and thieves." It's rare to hear Barsad sound so piercing. So utterly disgusted. Blake is shaking. _Fuck_. If he can't even get Barsad on his side, he has a snowball's chance in Hell of convincing Bane.

"...However." The second-in-command says, suddenly. "I _will_ stand by you if you try. I also don't want to see any more stories about Gotham neighborhoods going dark. If he doesn't listen...which is _highly_ likely...we can simply continue as we were. Bruce has always claimed the pacifistic route, so try to use that in your favor when you meet with him."

"...Yeah." Blake's whole body sags in relief. "Okay. Thank you, Barsad."

It's not the end of the conversation, though. Far from it. They both slowly turn to Bane. The masked man hasn't budged from where he stands by the small table, having already pieced a pistol back together and switched to the next. His movements are swift, controlled, but the look in his eyes is chilling.

"Will you, now." He murmurs, almost as if to himself. He grabs another pistol, ejects the magazine and dumps the bullets onto the table with an unnerving _clatter_. "You had few complaints when I sent him to the pit, Barsad. You loathe him nearly as much as I do. What inspired this change-of-heart?"

"...I am tired of losing men." Barsad mutters, breaking eye contact and looking suddenly, incredibly weary. Bane pulls out a rag and starts cleaning each part quickly and efficiently. He doesn't look at him, either. It's another old pain that Blake is far removed from. He shuffles from foot-to-foot in the awkward silence.

A soft _rap-rap_ by the tent flap. Bane waves a hand for permission and Barsad moves to leave, though not before placing a hand on Blake's shoulder.

"Tred lightly." He says. "...He's a dangerous man."

Blake gets the feeling he's not talking about Bruce Wayne.

\--

Blake's not the only one who has nightmares. When Bane wakes up in the middle of the night he can feel it.

A major tell was the change in his breath. As if he had suddenly finished a marathon, panting and quivering from head-to-toe. Body as rigid as a board. He didn't get up and leave like he did, though. Nor did did he fidget for hours or piss around with some mundane task until exhaustion took over. There would be a soft _hiss_ from his mask and, within seconds, he would be back asleep.

Occasionally Bane's were of the waking type. He could see it in the way his stare would sometimes lose focus without warning, yet not _quite_. Looking at something nobody else could see, hear or touch. His gaze would always snap back to attention, as it always did, so piercing and frank it was easy to forget it was ever anything else. Except...Blake never did.

He got that look in his eyes a lot more often lately. Whenever they took a breather in-between each brutal training session. The rarer, more peaceful moments they would talk by the fire with all the others. Even the times he would huddle by himself and pull out string to knit into various patterns, focused on nothing other than his hands...

Blake knew, every time, he was looking at Talia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of many things I love about fanfiction is how it makes you look at characters in a whole new light.
> 
> So often I've read a good one-shot or lengthy multiple chapter epic and some characters are just forever changed in my eyes.
> 
>  
> 
> also, yes, I finally worked in that Bane puma dream I had months ago into the story IT WAS TOO GOOD NOT TO


	52. Down, But Not Out

Bruce may no longer have control of his board, or most of his money, at that, but he had more than that to offer Gotham.

Lucius had been ecstatic to know he's alive and well, though even _that_ happy reunion was tinged with a weariness he didn't remember. It's been all the man can do to keep the Wayne Board functioning in light of the city's recent lockdown. The protests, the deaths, the policy changes made in favor of haste than the long-term good. International operations have all but slowed to a trickle over the weeks, as even a check-up from a collaborator the next city over has to pass through ten more security channels than usual.

His enterprises (not truly his, no, not anymore) haven't been able to donate to the city's at-risk youth because of dried-up funding. Even the promising new CEO elected in his place had taken an unceremonius sick leave that has left the rest of the board scrambling for someone equally canny to take her place. Bane's presence, and the dozens of other details erupting in his wake, triggered a decay that saw everything crumbling one after the other in a tedious avalanche.

Convenience wins out over quality every time. The Wayne Board was being viewed as more and more of a nuisance. He wouldn't be viewed any different.

_"At least we won't have to worry about competitors." Lucius says with a tired smile over his keyboard. "John Daggett was found dead in his suite a few months back."_

_"The cause of death?" Bruce had asked, even though he and Lucius already knew the only answer that could exist in a climate like Gotham's._

_"A broken neck." He rubs his failing white hair and hits send on yet another e-mail. "Notoriously bad for business."_

Bruce hasn't known Miranda very long at all, but the sight of her has the stiffness relaxing from his shoulders even before he's settled into his public persona. The elegant coats and soft heels he remembers are gone, replaced by a more pragmatic raincoat. Even then, the poise that comes naturally to her makes even these mundane little details sing. She doesn't bother to shield her hair from the light shower that's started when she jogs up the stairs, nor does she spare a glance at the employee that greets her.

"... _Bruce._ "

She waits until they've found a corner of the diner to call their own before hugging him tightly. She waits again for the waitress to leave them each with a menu before pressing her lips to his cheek. He has to stop himself from turning his head and turning it into a kiss. Not with Selina back. Not with _so_ much time passing between them. Still...there's promise in her blue eyes, a promise he wants to see through more badly than he's ever thought possible.

The Wayne Board, already reeling from yanked funding and his sudden disappearance, has also dealt with the third blow of her extended absence. Lucius told him it was an extended mental health leave from the stress of the city under Bane's reign of terror. He didn't have the details, what with her rather consistent silence over the weeks, but it was unlike Miranda to go so _long_ without contact. She's as responsible as she is charitable, so already he can sense there's something much worse beneath the surface.

When they've worn out pleasantries he asks her for details. The pain in her eyes is, and isn't, enough.

"Suffering builds character." She demurs in a recollection of that night they spent at his defunded estate, drenched from the rainfall and aching for little more than a warm bed. "It seems we are both very different people now, Bruce."

"You've suffered enough, I think." He mutters into his drink. The coffee is cheap, far too bitter even with creamer, but he savors every sip.

"It's not so bad." She smiles with a chin in her hand, the other stirring another sugar into her cup. Somehow, even that small motion is both enigmatic and disarming. "You are very good news, indeed."

Before he was dumped into the Lazarus Pit and left at the whim of his damaged spine and angry prisoners he would've kept her at arm's length. Just like Alfred. Just like Selina. Lucius, Gordon, even that wild card Blake. Put her in the same arena as all the people he had taken for granted without even realizing it. Now her draw is like a circle of light. Inexplicably bright and just within his grasp, but the effort requires more of his tired bones this time. If he doesn't give it his all, he knows he'll be lost all over again.

Like leaving the shallow end of the lagoon into darker waters Bruce reaches over and takes her hand. Miranda stiffens in surprise. Her hair has grown longer. It's also not curled anymore, loose and straggled from the outside drizzle. She's never looked more beautiful.

"Did you hear about what happened to the Commissioner?" She asks when the topic, just like any topic in Gotham, inches toward matters of common violence. "He's being held in custody for accomplice to Foley's murder."

"Yes..." Bruce only just notices the waitress that brings him his plate of eggs and toast. His appetite has been difficult, but Alfred didn't need more reason to worry over him. "It's unbelievable they would charge him with such a thing. That just isn't something he would do. Bane was sighted in the area when it happened, however. Unlike Gordon, _he_ has a history. Hopefully they'll instead link it to him."

"All of Gotham's problems cannot be pinned on one man. Even one as prolific as Bane." She says, as sharp as she ever was, and spreads jam on her bagel. "They are also on the lookout for John Blake."

Bruce can't place the spark of interest in her eyes, but then again, there was still much he didn't know about her.

"Well...then I suppose that will have to go for you, too." Bruce says. "You don't have to carry the weight of the city on your shoulders."

"You worry so much for me." Her eyes curve with a teasing light, but it's soon replaced by worried lines. "Especially after Bane..."

"Don't worry about Bane." He drains the rest of his coffee in one go. "He doesn't deserve the satisfaction."

He wanted to let her in. He hadn't forgotten that conversation they had about trust, all the way back when he had shown her the nuclear reactor that would only end up snatched right from under him. Again and again he had replayed her words when he left the pit and wandered through hot, dusty towns. Again and again when he finally returned home. If he had trusted her more, _any_ person in this city more, all those months back...what could have happened?

"Did Bane get to you?" Bruce whispers, even though the diner's clutter masks his words easily. His unexpected escape may have undermined much of Bane's hard work, but the man hadn't been one of Ra's' best students for nothing. There was _always_ another plan. Always another way to worry away at Bruce's ideals like rot on a tree, subtle and deadly enough to send the entire foundation crashing to the ground.

"No." The stitled answer surprises him. Even more so the terse follow-up that clashes with her charming air like oil and water. "No...he did not."

Even now they're both holding secrets at bay.

The rest of lunch is a series of fleeting conversations interrupted by chewing and long bouts of silence. The radio plays a pop song, unusual now to his ears, and struggles to fill the half-empty diner with cheer. As they finish up Miranda places a gentle hand on his knee beneath the table.

"You just give me the word and I'll help you in any way I can." She dimples a smile. Soft all over again. "We're both down, but that doesn't mean we're out."

It's a fleeting glimpse of hope, but it tethers him to reality more surely than any rope. She touches his knee again as they wait for the check, lets it linger, and he doesn't push her away nor pull her close. Like last time neither of them have an umbrella, but it gives him an easy opportunity to touch her face as he pushes stray droplets of water away.

Miranda tells him he doesn't need an excuse. Mimics him by scrubbing a thumb beneath his eye where the rain gathers. Before they go their separate ways she tells him she's pregnant.

\--

He's inside Gotham for the first time in _weeks_.

Not just on the outskirts, not lost somewhere in the middle of nature, but _here_ in the thick of good, old-fashioned smog and noise. He might even admit he misses it all (though, like a true Gothamite, he wouldn't do it without some money upfront). Sure, The Bowery wasn't the _first_ place he'd pick for a nostalgic visit, but with his face still coating wanted lists and Gotham constantly sniffing for anything, and _anyone_ , to blame its corruption on...he couldn't be picky.

The Bowery wasn't heavily patrolled during lockdown, but then again, it never was. Not when it was Gotham's reigning hub of crime and its residents were regularly armed to the teeth...and that was _before_ mentioning the officers that loved to visit during 'off-hours' (something he had always known about and always had to keep his mouth fucking _shut_ about). Weirdly enough, he still feels at home. It probably has something to do with him being another member in the motley crew that made up the Bowery population.

" _If you have any details on the whereabouts of John Robin Blake, please contact the Gotham City Police Department as soon as possible._ "

Blake tightens the dark blue scarf around his nose and mouth to keep it from slipping and fastens his jacket hood. St. Swithin's calls to him, miles away, a pull he can feel in his bones. Unfortunately for him, it wasn't the only echo in his skull these days.

_"You miss them...don't you, Blake?"_

The League had struck a deal with black market weapons suppliers from deep inside the infamous neighborhood. Just a week earlier Barsad had done the dirty work of assassinating a corrupt realtor that had been quietly uprooting the residents of multiple apartment complexes both inside and near the Bowery. Even being a hotbed for organized crime the victims had ranged from veteran drug dealers to working-class immigrants with expired certificates to family members who just happened to get caught in the middle. Some were arrested on association _alone_. Yet more...wouldn't return home.

This single death had a snowball effect that was still building up speed. When the realtor's connection with the Gotham City Police Department was revealed through a leak (which may or may not have _also_ been facilitated by the League) certain questions drowned out all others. Who else was getting away with this behavior with nobody any the wiser? Why had so _much_ effort been put into The Bowery and not East End or The Narrows? Was the source of the chemical similar to the events that transpired eight years ago...or was it a new way to control Gotham City?

As Bane would put it...a fire had been lit. Everyone had no choice but to watch and wait for the flames to die down.

Bane had decided to make an appearance, as much to meet with the new head honcho as to reiterate where the League stood on the pecking order. Thanks to this 'unexpected death' a man with the alias 'The Penguin' was said to run half of The Bowery now. Barsad was coming along, bringing along a good two dozen in what he called a more 'subtle' show of muscle. Yet a few more would be stationed nearby the meet-and-greet in case anything got ugly.

"You think Penguin's trustworthy?" Blake had asked during a rare free moment that morning as they were all getting ready.

"It's rather difficult to find someone completely trustworthy in Gotham." Had been Bane's brisk answer.

Then something goes wrong, because something _always_ goes wrong.

It's a reputation very well-earned when _Bowery_ regulars look nervous. Bane doesn't wear his sheepskin coat, nor does he wear his black biker uniform. He'd donned that deep brown leather jacket he wore all the way back during that snowstorm -- it seemed to be the closest compromise he had with his inherently unsettling appearance. With leather gloves the same coffee color and shiny combat boots, he'd looked regal enough to fit in and menacing enough to stand out.

Penguin had been amicable greeting them all personally when they entered the small-yet-upscale Iceberg Lounge. He had to be, seeing as one of Bane's most beloved pet peeves was being disrespected -- the fact the masked man took so much lip from _him_ was just another sign of how close they were, because it was otherwise the quickest way to get on his bad side. In hindsight, it truly was a wonder Daggett lasted as long as he did.  


"Oh, yes, very good to see you." The Penguin had preened, his British accent heavy and sounding straight out of another century. "Big fan of your work, _big fan_."

"A pleasure, good sir." Bane said, not even looking at the hand offered to him.

"Please. Call me Penguin." His round face stretched with an ingratiating smile, though Blake had caught a flicker of displeasure in his eyes. "We all have to keep up appearances, don't we, Bane?"

That was for damn sure. Two upstanding older gentlemen groomed in murder sounding like they were trying to out-accent eachother. Blake would almost find it comical if he wasn't waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The entire time he'd all but bowed and scraped to Bane, something that would no doubt have looked excessive or even cowardly if it were toward anyone else. Offered him something to eat or drink (which Bane refused). Offered the League members something to eat or drink (which they also refused, Blake included, because poison was one of the easiest ways to get rid of the competition). He even asked about the mask as some sort of conversation starter, but all he'd gotten out of the man was a polite comment to get straight to business.

"Temporary partnership aside, I don't expect you to spill all your secrets." He still didn't call him Penguin. It was a challenge of omission, one that subtly told the new leader he had a way to go when it came to earning Bane's respect. "Indeed, it would be wise to keep a few...Mr. Cobblepot."

The Penguin's grip on his cane had visibly tightened and even the two bulky bodyguards flanking him had shuffled nervously at the mention of his real name. Blake was really glad the scarf was covering his face, because his grin would have looked extremely out-of-place -- despite the League facing a few setbacks (even if they were mostly from within), their reputation was ever a finely oiled machine. The Bowery loved nothing more than efficient crime paired with style and Bane continued to make it look like an art form.

Everyone here wears black suits. Classic mobsters straight out of expensive serials. The League members and Penguin's thugs eye each other all the while like a pack of hungry wolves. Sizing each other up, looking for suspicious behavior or weak points. Blake, on the other hand, stands off to the side and doesn't even bother making eye contact. When a person has seen one form of swagger, they've seen it all.

It's not long before the Penguin asks to speak with Bane in private upstairs. Even Barsad has to stay downstairs with the rest. Blake tries to ignore the rather... _constant_ scrutiny a few of the lackies have been giving him all the while. His face may be covered, but his eyes and some of his nose still showed. Would that be enough to identify him? As it turns out, that ends up being one of the lesser details.

"You're rather...small for a mercenary." He's eerily pale and possessed of the same accent as Penguin. His obnoxious slickback makes Blake glad he got over the style a long time ago.

"Yeah?" Blake responds, brightly. "Good to know we have something in common."

His peers snicker. Point one goes to Blake. Slickback's face pinches into a scowl.

"I ain't a mercenary, mate. I got standards."

"No kidding. Can't have too many doing business from The Bowery."

"Jus' what do ya _know_ 'bout The Bowery, eh?"

He knows what they're doing. Checking for cracks. The fact Blake has an obvious limp and lacks the more... _impressive_ stature of some of the others just made him the easiest target in the bunch. The other League members are watching quietly from their positions by the doors and windows, but they otherwise don't do a thing. Nor would he want them to. He knows they would have his back if it got serious, but until it got to that point it was up to Blake to contribute to the League's image as much as any of them would.

Then the thug puts a hand on his shoulder and the cool pull of logic suddenly seems much less appealing.

"You'll want to rethink that." Blake says, nodding to it. "We have a good thing going here."

"Jus' tryin' to break the ice." He looks him over. "Why do you all hide yer faces, anyway? We're all friends 'ere."

"Figure you would have an appreciation for discretion." He tries to shrug him off, but the hand stubbornly stays. "Though _clearly_ not for making assumptions."

"See, there it is again. We're homegrown. You all have been rocking the boat nicely, but that don't mean yer Gothamites."

Blake purses his lips and nods slowly, as if he's taking it all in with very studious attention...then he reaches up, takes the man's fingers in one hand and holds his forearm firm in the other and _yanks_ them back at a ninety-degree angle. Slickback doesn't yelp or pull away, at the very least, but his already bony face bleaches to a rather impressive pallor.

"As I was saying." Blake reiterates calmly over his vice-like grip. "Keep your assumptions, and your hands, to yourself."

A less classy place might've already had guns drawn and knives pulled, but the Iceberg Lounge was both shinier _and_ more restrained. A furtive glance at his surroundings and every last person in the room is at the ready, hands hovering over their weapons or shoulders drawn back. Slickback looks like he's seriously tempted to break the unspoken agreement to refrain from violence when he lets go and shoves his hands in his pocket like nothing happened.

"Son of a...bet you can't even name one of the gangs here." The man snaps, wringing his hand to check for damage.

"East Side Dragons." Blake says, instantly. They had gained noteriety not for their operations, but the fact they'd gotten royally screwed over by Catwoman not two years prior. It'd make a funny story to talk about instead, but Slickback is clearly beyond humor and decent conversation at this point. "Your turn."

"They ain't been relevant in years." He sneers. "Can ya even name an old family or you jus' gonna parrot what you see in the news?"

"I don't know." Blake raises his eyebrows. "Can _you_ name an old family?"

"'course I can." They spit on the floor and, considering just how clean it is, it's extra gross. He's reminded of growing up at Swithin's and being surrounded by boys desperately trying to mimic men despite being years away from the title. "Sabatino and Maroni."

"Maroni, huh? I take your Sabatino and Maroni and raise you Panessa and Galante." He could've chosen a more obvious one like Nostra from East End, but nobody grew up in Gotham with even a minor interest in criminal activity without knowing about the smaller families that made up the pool. A long, low whistle escapes from one of the thugs by the front door. Another two are doing a rather nice golf-clap in his honor. Huh. Been a while since he got one of _those._

Barsad is smiling very slightly from where he stands near the staircase. It's obvious Penguins goons weren't expecting him to know _this_ much. It would do the League some good going forward to have everyone thinking they know the city's history through-and-through.

Then Slickback has a rather long knife out and glinting in the ambient lighting.

"Knowledge only gets you so far, mate." He says with a shrug of feigned innocence. "...at least, in Gotham."

Blake would wonder just how stupid this man is, but then again, he worked with similar jackasses back in the force. Different coat of paint, same turd. He holds his ground, easily, the weight of his pole in his inner coat pocket a reassuring weight...

"As much as I would enjoy the final act of this play..." A voice rasps. "...we have more important pissing contests to attend to."

Oh, how Blake _wishes_ he could film the double-take the guy does when he turns around and sees Bane standing not five inches behind him.

" _Oh fu-_ " Slickback barely cuts off his curse. "I, uh. Hullo, Bane." He starts, weakly, and it's probably the lousiest thing he could've said. Everyone in the room, Penguin thug and League mercenary alike, gape in comically similar expressions of superior disdain. For a moment, everyone in the room is temporarily united under the banner of one dumb fuck's bad timing.

"I, uh. I wasn't 'bout to start nothin'. Jus' makin' nice, you know, what with the new crew comin' into the..." He looks around him uselessly and trails off when it's clear his peers aren't about to back him up. Indeed, they're all either checking their watches or cleaning their nails. "...I'll shut up now."

Bane watches him for an eerily long time. So long that Blake wonders if he could kill with a stare alone. The guy looks like he has no clue whether to avert his gaze or run the risk of appearing, however possible, even _more_ rude under this scrutiny. So he just quivers and licks his lips and stares up at the man whose chin he barely comes up to.  


"I _would_ thank you all for your hospitality..." Bane rubs a thoughtful hand beneath his chin as Penguin walks up beside him. Judging by how weirdly stiff the guy looks, he might've just been on the receiving end of one of those stares himself. "...but it seems I've stumbled upon a crack in your foundation. I don't make a habit of working _around_ disrespect."

"Yes, yes. A very good point, Bane. Please forgive the rashness of my employ." Penguin says with a disapproving _cluck_ in the goon's direction for good measure. "Money can't buy everything, it seems."

In one smooth motion the squat man flicks out his cane and holds it to Slickback's throat -- the white tip has disappeared to reveal a long, thin blade. It presses maliciously into the scrawny man's throat. Just barely keeping from cutting the skin and nicking a vital.

"Perhaps this man's untimely death would make a suitable apology."

"N-No, p-please, I'm so-" He starts to gulp, then thinks better of it. Blake thinks quickly, because Bane is standing silently and making it clear he wasn't about to intervene. The guy may have been a prick, but he didn't deserve a knife in his trachea for it.

"If you start something, you finish it." Blake says when Penguin's cane looks like it's ready to pass through the man's neck and stick him to the wall behind him. "A basic foundation of the League."

"...Is that so?" Penguin asks, raising his thin nose in a gesture that suggests he better continue with something good. Considering how many reputations were on the line the moment he opened his mouth, he didn't have the intention to do anything different.

"So, you talk a pretty good game. Can that knife of yours back it up?" He asks Slickback, who is anxiously rubbing his throat now that Penguin's backed off. A shuffle of footsteps and everyone has backed away to give them a little bit of space. Fights didn't need much explanation. There was only a beginning, middle and end. Already the goon is ready to prove himself, flipping the knife in his hand and watching him with both confusion and eagerness in his eyes.

"First one to land a hit wins." Blake grins. "Ready?"

One swipe is all he needs to figure out what the guy has to offer. He's got first-hand experience and a decent enough amount of bloodlust, but he was no League member. Blake cut his teeth on stray dogs and groups of know-nothing bullies before he graduated junior high. There was no way to get through his childhood, then his adulthood, without being a little too clever and a little too desperate. Really, aside from the three-piece suit, this guy wasn't much different from any pissant who thought Blake a stepping stone.

Another menacing thrust, one that could go right through his kidney and fill it with blood, completes the equation. Blake steps to the side and drops down...and stomps on his heel, flicking the boot-knife out and snatching it with two quick fingers. One flick of his wrist and it's buried in the man's thigh. _Now_ he screams.

The Lounge bursts into applause. Penguin looks pleased, though he eyeballs the blood staining the floor with a growing crinkle to his nose. Slickback, looking for all the world like he wants to crawl out of his own skin and leave his body, shoves past his peers and limps out of the room. A little bit of humiliation never hurt anybody, especially when the alternative was a messy death to spare a boss' hurt pride -- Blake could attest to that personally.

One hearty, distorted laugh rises above all others.

"On _that_ fine note." Bane claps a hand on Penguin's shoulder. The man looks about as pale and round as a lump of old snow. "Let's do business again in the future."

It's weird, and very welcome, having the taste of victory on his tongue despite his reservations. Blake closes his eyes and breathes in deeply once they're out and getting ready to head to their respective stations. When he opens them again Bane is peering down at him curiously.

"That was a rather impressive effort to spare the life of one hoodlum."

"Look. If every jackass in Gotham up and died tomorrow I think the only people that'd be left standing would be toddlers and nuns." He pauses. "Or just toddlers."

Maybe Bane is glad he went to such lengths to make him look good, or maybe he's impressed by his backbone, but whatever has him smiling like that is definitely related to how easily he accepts Blake's request to get some air before they head back to base. Barsad takes over (with a brief and sincere compliment in his ear) and they set off into the Gotham evening.

They park the bike somewhere safe (at least, by Bowery standards) and walk together. Bane keeps his helmet on to avoid extra scrutiny, even though Blake could likely throw a rock and hit someone who didn't really give a shit about the legendary masked man going for an evening stroll in their neighborhood. They pass through a crowded little district and ease their way through crowds toward a small, mostly abandoned park.

"I missed most of that riveting conversation..." Bane murmurs. "...but, according to Barsad, it was about Gotham's history. You really do care for your city."

It's not a question. Blake still feels compelled to answer.

"Well...yeah. It's my home." He worries at a hangnail. "Yours, too, y'know."

"Have you thought of living elsewhere?" Bane is staring through the gap in the fence at a group of children playing in an otherwise empty playground. It's strange. He feels his mind tripping over the question, even though it's as basic as asking a person if they wanted to pick up their college studies again.

"Huh. I don't know." He admits. "Been here all my life. I thought about moving to Metropolis at one point, but I couldn't bear to leave the boys behind. I even thought of studying abroad when I went to college...just kept getting sucked back in for one reason or another."

One kid takes a rather rough tumble off the swing. They must be younger, because two others immediately crowd around them to check if they're all right.

"You...never told me what you would do after Gotham." Blake is a little too overeager and tears the skin. He hisses in pain and sucks on his thumb.

She's squalling now. All the kids have stopped playing. One gangly child with stringy hair is patting her on the shoulders and try to wipe away her tears. Another shorter kid appears to be showing off a scrape or a bruise, lifting up their pant leg and pointing to it enthusiastically. The good ol' 'misery loves company' routine.

"I can't remain. That would turn me into a savior, rather than a guide, and there is no better teacher than one who helps those help themselves." Bane murmurs. His voice is...tender. He hasn't looked anywhere else yet. "Should I survive the coming weeks' events...the League will eventually need a more solid base of operations so we can continue to build. It will be well away from here. Somewhere secluded, with decent land, though the latter can be worked with well enough."

The little girl isn't crying anymore, though her heavy sniffles make her entire body quiver even from their generous distance. The kid with the scraped knee lets her touch it, though the moment she does they suddenly fall to the ground and pretend they've been grievously wounded. She starts to giggle. Blake can't help but chuckle around his aching thumb.

"...you could come with me." Bane's hand reaches for his, carefully, and gives his fingers a squeeze so soft it startles him. "Your life does not begin and end with this city."

The kids all get to their feet and return to their favorite spots on the playground, their laughter echoing sharply in the chilly expanse.

"I don't know." It's hard to hold Bane's gaze. He looks down at the gloved hand almost dwarfing his own. "Everything I know is here. Everything I've done..."

"...you are just one man."

"So are you."

He feels his throat tightening as his next question rises between the span of pulling back from the fence and walking back out of the alley into the open light again. They occasionally duck behind a building or change their route when a patrol car drives by, as easily as breathing. The flow of people has slowed to a trickle, a little strange considering Bowery's unique approach to the dark, but it plays second fiddle to the questions bubbling in his mind.

"It's amazing how much effort you put into a city you don't seem to like all that much."

"That's not particularly apt. It lays claim to you, after all."

His chest clutches. Oh, _fuck_ a lead-in.

"Bane...what were you going to say that day?" He asks, a little too quickly. His heart starts to pound, uselessly, but no amount of internal self-admonishment seems to change it. "At The Reckoning. Or, rather, before The Reckoning. Before everything went to the birds."

"...We are being followed."

Just like that, the bad part of the day has arrived in a small group of skulking ingrates. This part of the street isn't nearly populated enough for them _not_ to stick out and it's clear they're all armed just by the way they walk. Bane slows to a stop. Blake opens his mouth to tell him to keep going, _fuck_ these guys with a capital F, then he slowly shuts it. Of course. He doesn't want to lead them to their parking space and, potentially, their rendezvous point.

"Good day." Bane says to the group, cheerily. "I'm assuming you're not here as an escort."

No threats or extortion. Not even a word. It's clear exactly what they're here for. Was he just a magnet for bullshit? Blake gives them all a quick once-over in the failing light. Five. No coordinated clothing. Fear and eagerness in their eyes. Bane has worn his helmet all the while. While it very well could be an assassination attempt, everything points to them being nothing more than a bunch of vultures trying to seize an opportunity and make a name for themselves in the power shift.

All five are armed with pocketknives and typical Bowery menace, which means he already has the upperhand with a weapon they either don't know about or severely underestimate. Blake puts his retractable staff to very good (and unexpected) use, sending two men jerking to the floor with just two well-placed jabs to their neck. The others are kept wonderfully busy by Bane, whose quick reflexes make short work of whatever they had planned with bone-crunching intensity.

It's a shame they happened to wander into the dead part of a neighborhood, because any bystanders would be getting one hell of a show. One-by-one they fall like sacks of potatoes. Then the last one, faced with the limp bodies of their peers and shit out of options, just pulls out a pistol. After a split-second's judgment he turns and aims it at the biggest threat. Helmet or no, Blake's body does the only thing that makes sense.

The man is the last to hit the ground and join his fellows, only this time with a brand new hole in his chest. Bane wipes a splatter of blood from his helmet visor and looks at the limp body at his feet.

"Nice shot."

Blake looks at the spray of blood on his pant leg, then shoves the pistol in his holster with trembling hands. He'd think about how much more easily he pulled the trigger this time later. The _thrum_ of engines are sounding off in the distance and they're too thick to be traffic.

"Reinforcements." Bane says, simply, like it's just another detail on his laundry list.

"For the love of..." Blake tightens his grip on his staff, torn between putting it away and beefing up the voltage. "We can't fight all of them."

"We could." Bane looks sideways at him. "Unless you have a different idea."

With their ride a few blocks away they needed another bike. One is leading the pack, the others closing in fast. Hotwiring a motorcycle wasn't a problem. It's just getting one that'll be the tough part. Bane isn't perturbed when he tells him. Indeed, he can see a plan forming in his eyes. That's when they see a particularly cocky thug driving straight at them. A pinprick down the long road that grows larger with every second. Blake reaches for his pistol to get off another clean shot, only for Bane to put a hand on his shoulder.

"Stand back."

Blake gapes as he leaves the sidewalk, strolls out into the road and stands right in the middle. Even at a distance it's clear the rider can't believe his weird luck, hunching forward and punching the gas to close the gap. At the last second, when Blake is _sure_ Bane's going to get hit head-on in a deadly collision, the masked man sidesteps and hooks out his arm.

They're clotheslined straight off the bike to flip onto the ground with a devastating _thud_.

The motorcycle swerves precariously down the road and crashes into a chainlink fence, bouncing back like a rubberband to skid onto its side. It's going to be messed up, but whatever, it _works_. Blake bolts over and yanks it back up. Gunshots pop behind him. He hunches down, but they're not firing at him. They're firing at Bane, who has the unconscious rider up like a shield. It's ruthless, but effective. They back off, swerving away from him in a physical second-guess, but only momentarily.

Blake grinds a heel into the pedal and swerves up behind him.

"Get on!"

The second Bane's on he punches the gas. Buildings and parked cars pass by in a gray blur, his mind working just about as fast. There have been changes in leadership. He's also been out of the loop for _weeks_ , in a Gotham landscape that was about as stable as a bed of quicksand. It was a shaky plan, but it was still the best chance they got.

The shock of their fallen members has worn off. The Bowery goons tear after them with a vengeance. He has no idea how many, only that it's far too many and their chances of getting out unscathed are dwindling with every increasing decibel behind them. Bane ducks his head when a gunshot pops to their right and goes through a parked car window. He leans a hand further on the seat to better yank Blake's pistol right out of its holster, aim over his shoulder and fire back with his last three rounds. Blake's ears ring from the loud engine and the gunshot alike, but just like Bane trusts him to steer, he trusts him not to miss.

One rider manages to get up beside him, though he must instantly regret it when Blake leans to one side and promptly kicks him off. Then he takes a sharp right into an alley. He can feel Bane tense behind him, and for good reason, but he knows _exactly_ where he's going. Rather than being greeted with a fence or series of trash cans it's a transition into the next neighborhood over.

An old factory stretches out to greet them. It's still too far away, but he's not planning on going all the way. Just close enough to get the point across. He feels Bane turn to look behind him -- the rest of the gang have slowed down considerably, the roar of their motorcycles dwindling to a sullen growl. Blake doesn't even pause to make sure they've lost them. It's already getting dark and, judging by the fact he can actually see the night sky, they were nearing the city limits.

It's hard not to worry about who might get blamed for the aftermath. He shoves it out of his mind. Like he said...he was just one man.

"...Very clever." Bane muses once they've reached the rendezvous point. Since they'd decided to go on a walk, the only person there to meet them is one of the scouts. They don't even blink at the fresh blood spatter on their clothes. "An unwelcome territory, I presume?"

"Exactly." Blake puffs up his cheeks and blows out a huge sigh. "Damn. I wasn't sure if The Maronis were still in charge, but judging by how quickly they pissed off when I went near their factory...apparently they are."

"We would have been in a bad spot if you were wrong." Bane says, peeling his gloves off to stash in his coat pocket. He can just catch the stains of blood, a patch of ink in the dark.

"Can't plan everything out to the T." Blake counters. "Though you probably could've still given them a run for their money."

"You flatter me." For someone that just got out of beating up a dozen or more Bowery thugs he doesn't look very happy. "Hmph. Fleeing will be another detail to overcome."

"Better than being dead. Besides." His skin is still thrumming with leftover adrenaline and something a little nicer. "You were, uh...pretty incredible back there."

"...So were you."

It fucks him up when Bane looks at him like that. Stripping him bare with just his eyes, somehow both lazy and _fiercely_ attentive. It's as if, just for a second, he's the only person in the world. Blake's tongue runs along his lower lip in memory of the kiss they shared back in the van. He's not entirely sure if Bane's eyes follow the motion, but the man always had better night vision than him. He can _hear_ his breath go uneven, a discordant beat through the mask.

"I'll let you drive." He says with a loose smile. "You're much better at roughing it. Then I think I'll take a shower or three once we're back, if it's all right with you."

"You seemed quite hesitant to leave." Bane mutters as they switch spots. "You were fitting into the Iceberg Lounge quite well."

"Ha! Don't tell me you're jealous." Blake barks a laugh before settling behind him...then he frowns and tries to peer over Bane's broad shoulder when the man doesn't respond. "...You're _not_ jealous, right...?"

"...You're ridiculous."

"Holy hell...you _are_."

He has to grab the man's jacket when he suddenly lurches backwards and around in a smooth-yet- _sharp_ half-turn. Whatever curse he has prepared is also cut short when Bane hits the gas and speeds down the bumpy road.

Blake watches the smudge of buildings and trees. It's funny. He fought so hard to do some good. Ruffled feathers, turned heads, spoke out. Yet nobody knows he's here and, at the moment, he wouldn't have it any other way. It doesn't take long for his thoughts to slip away like the city in his gaze to rest instead on the man he's holding in his grasp.

Romantic or professional...either way it feels patently bizarre Bane could feel jealousy, even a little, over him. Him, of all people. He was _Bane_ , for fuck's sake. A man who walked through the flames and came out on the other side with little more than ash on his jacket hem. Who mastered fear and was schooling the entire world on a concept older than humanity. Someone who, without hesitation, protected an enemy from the falling debris of a crumbling building because of fucking _potential_.

The more he thinks about it...the more a touch of envy actually makes a little bit of sense.

When they slow to a temporary stop between a cluster of trees Blake places a kiss on his shoulderblade. He can hear a _creak_ as Bane tightens his hands on the handlebars.

They rise higher and higher throughout the tall hills and gradual inclines that eventually lead to the mountain border. There would be a few mercenaries on watch waiting for them when they got to the point. Gotham winks in the distance just over the cluster of half-bare treetops. Then Bane grinds to a sudden halt and shuts off the engine. With an impatient movement he knocks the kickstand into place and steps off the bike on the side of the road.

"...Bane?" He asks, turning away from the impressive expanse. "What's wrong?"

Blake gets up to follow, stomach clenching with a new concern, then hastily pushes both hands _back_ into the leather seat to keep from falling over when Bane all but _shoves_ himself up against him. Sensations tumble together in a rush -- the bulge in his jeans, the jerky rhythm of his breath by his ear, the hands that are already pawing at his thighs and his ass and-

"Woah. H-Hey." He says, grinning so hard it hurts. "Missed you, too."

Blake's hands are almost numb from the cold and the shock of Bane's warm skin beneath his coat makes them both jump. He doesn't mind at all. Just grinds up against him like he wants to fuck him through his clothes. Blake ruts against him with a brand-new desperation, as much as he can without toppling backwards over the motorcycle.

He doesn't want to delay asking him about his thoughts on meeting with Bruce any longer, but he's here, there's nobody else around, it's the perfect spot and _fuck_ he can't take it anymore-

"I was starting to think you'd never touch me again." Bane's jeans are already stretched tight. He was probably hard the entire ride over, poor fuck. "Then you wore this _outfit_ , like you were trying to rub it in-"

"I've been busy." His husky words clash with the tear of a zipper, the rustle of clothes. Sweet music alongside the pounding in Blake's ears. "I hope the wait was worth it."

"Could you..." Blake feels along the back of his head, where the straps hold firm. "...take this off again?"

"It would be tedious, all the while." Bane says, with feeling, and he pushes the front of his mask against his neck in memory. "I _want_ to."

"It's fine. It's fine, I don't want you hurting yourself..." Blake mutters, pushing his nose into his coat collar to kiss his adam's apple. That only makes Bane growl in frustration, a tremble through the skin.

"It wouldn't _hurt_ , per se. Just-" Bane starts, hoarsely, only to cut off with a groan when Blake sucks an earnest pattern into his neck.

His bum leg is starting to ache. He tries to lean more against Bane, but the position soon becomes awkward. Cold air snaps between them when Bane instead leans off the bike and tugs him after by one of his belt loops. Blake's not exactly sure what he has in mind, but he's so aroused he can't think beyond the next five seconds, so he just lets himself be manhandled until his back is on the hard ground and he's looking up at a pocket of shadow.

" _Finally_." Blake breathes as Bane swings a leg over and crouches on top of him. "Just...here, let me-"

Characteristically, _annoyingly_ , Bane pushes his hands away from him and starts unbuckling Blake's belt. It must be the adrenaline and the past few weeks' lust rocketing through him because he leans up and _bites_ the crook of his neck hard enough to get through whatever medicinal cocktail he has swimming around in that mask. He knows he feels _something_ , because Bane goes rigid as a board.

" _Stop_ that, I want to touch you, god _damn_ it-" Blake hisses into his skin. "It's been forever and a _day-_ "

Bane clamps a hand on his hair and yanks his head back, just enough for his face to be right up to his, and he'd bite his lips, too, if he could. Instead the night sky frames him in a glittering wall, a stunning sight that would take his breath away if he didn't have...well, something else already doing that and pretty damn effectively.

"Watch your teeth..." Bane growls as he shoves a rough hand into his briefs and grabs his cock. "...when you put that angry _mouth_ around me."

" _Ha_." Blake lets his head drop back into the curve of Bane's hand, closing his eyes so tightly he sees a different kind of star. "Don't think I can- _mmph_ -make any promises there."

"You should." Like a whiplash the almost vicious note in Bane's voice has softened to an affectionate rumble, shaking him from the outside in. "Oh, you really, _really_ should."

Blake opens his mouth for a quip that never comes, only to exhale the messy words in a rush because Bane's fist is _rough_ and blisteringly hot against the cold air stinging his bare stomach and hips. He tugs on his cock quickly at first, wasting no time, knuckles dusting up and down his stomach. Then, without warning, he switches to an achingly slow and _tight_ up-and-down that nearly bunches the skin.

" _Bane._ " His name is the perfect curse. "Shit, _shit_."

"Eloquent as always." Bane might have chuckled. Reality beyond the mad rush in his loins is hard to pin down. Blake _sighs_ and twists on the cold ground, even arches a little, finally slowing down after the crazy day to one brief, blissful moment after another. Then Bane's erection is pressing into his hip and cutting through his haze.

"Bane, just-" He pants, reaching again and feeling where denim gets taut and warm. "Just let me _touch_ you-"

First he's still. Blake can still feel his cock twitch through the thick material when he rubs a warm palm up his leg. Then it's a blur of motion. His hand is snapped back to hit the ground above his head, the other following suit. Bane settles over him, more comfortably, then one hand returns to grip him more tightly than before.

"Controlling _bastard_ -" Blake gasps. "Seriously, I can't move now?"

"You have done enough today."

"You don't get to just _decide_ that."

"Are you complaining?"

"No, but you're still an _ass_."

It's incredible they both find time to bicker even as they're both fucking somewhere in the woods in the middle of the night. It warms his heart, actually. He won't admit it, not when it'd be admitting an indirect _defeat_ , but Bane is still clearly enjoying himself. He can tell by the erratic punch of his breath every time he touches Blake like _that_ and makes him keen like a virgin.

Then Bane's forehead comes to rest against his own. It's, somehow, more intimate than being jerked off. Blake's unable to reach up and hold him there, so he opts to just plant a kiss on the front of his mask, then moves his way along the straps in a sticky, crooked path. It takes him a moment to organize the words into something resembling a coherent sentence, his voice is completely wrecked to shit.

"You shouldn't be jealous." He mumbles into the pocket of warmth between Bane's neck and coat collar. "I- _mmph_ -don't have...eyes for anyone else..."

"Again you presume overmuch." Bane says, smoothly enough, though his voice sounds about as tight as his grip. Just the sound of that wound-up vulnerability more of an admission than he needs.

"You don't _need_ to." Blake insists, then grinds teeth into his lip when Bane scrubs a calloused thumb right above his balls. "B-But you need to do _that_. Again. Do that again."

"Hm..." Bane says, teasing, then pushes and rolls into that spot that makes Blake so hard it hurts. "Do what again? Suggest that I'm at the whim of my conceit or stroke you just so?"

"Shit, Bane, do you have to be such a smug little _shit_ about it-" He starts, trying to form a biting argument around the animalistic groan bubbling up all the way from his groin. "Oh, fuck, I don't want-"

-to come, he wants it to last forever, but it's somehow less possible than outrunning a gang on a stolen motorcycle. Blake suddenly twists his head to one side and bucks helplessly, almost gets _dirt_ in his mouth in the process but for a momentary eternity everything is pitch-fucking-perfect. Bane presses the front of his mask against the side of his head, then to his cheek, little alternating shocks to his heated skin as he rides the waves of his orgasm. Then he lets go of his hands to lean over him and reach down to unzip his fly.

Blake is still catching his breath when Bane's thighs flank his head and his cock brushes down insistently against his lips. Without hesitation he leans up and licks at the salty-sweetness leaking from the tip. One hard suck and Bane is already beyond words. Like it's all he can do just to rock on his knees and push as much of his cock into his mouth as possible.

" _Mm._ "

Blake has to remember not to smile lest he graze him. The air is still damn cold, though, and he has to pull back more than once to lick at the dryness settling onto his lips. His stomach pangs sympathetically at Bane's strained sigh and he licks up and down his shaft to compensate, quickly, getting it as wet as possible before pulling him back in. Bane's hand cups the back of his head when he does, as if to say: " _Stay._ "

It's not all the way, but it's enough. Bane's head drops down and he _groans_ like it hurts. He starts to dip down, in and out, fucking his throat as gently as possible and Blake both adores it and hates it. He swallows him in as hard as he can, chokes on him, and Bane's grip on his hair makes his eyes water. After all the pain that's been layering and layering on top of each other for what seems like forever, it's liberating to choose one he actually wants.

He's so wrapped up in the moment he neglects the awkwardness of his position when Bane comes. He thinks he's careful, but the warm trickle down his chin says otherwise. Already he feels himself warming with embarrassment, though it's dark and even Bane couldn't make out the mess covering his front. He's thinking of asking him if he has anything in the glove compartment to mop himself off with when Bane's mask _clicks_. Then his mouth is on him and lapping away at the mess he made.

Blake tilts his head back, one hand fisted in Bane's jacket as his tongue and lips leave cooling trails up and down his neck. Soon he makes up to the corner of his mouth and pushes his tongue inside. It's wet and messy and exactly what he needs. He already knows he's going to beat off to this salt-and-sex taste one night when he can't sleep. It's also too brief. Just when he's starting to get into it Bane pulls back again, with a note of finality in the straightness of his spine.

Blake can't help it, he grips him harder, a physical plea not to go just _yet_. Bane lets out a low hiss of what could be pain or warning.

"I-I'm sorry." Blake breathes, clumsily, and lets go. "I shouldn't-"

Bane is strapping on his mask, quickly, and he presses back down against him once he's finished.

"Stop." He orders, firmly. "Keep your apologies."

"I know you use it for pain..."

" _Stop_."

Bane moves his thumb along his lips and Blake kisses, down the pad and closer to his palm. Then he actually _does_ get a little dirt in his mouth and starts sputtering, much to Bane's hoarse amusement. Standing up with a low grunt he reaches over and grabs a cleaning rag out of the glove compartment, smelling only slightly of grease, and tosses it onto his face.

"Addictions don't have to be forever." Blake murmurs sleepily as they lean their backs against the bike and stare at the twinkling lights. "There's got to be a way to help you live without your mask."

"It would take a long time to reach the point where my addiction is manageable." Bane sounds more relaxed than he's heard him in weeks. "I have considered it, but with so much on my plate..."

"I'll quit smoking." He offers, half-teasing. Bane _hums_ and reaches out a quick hand for the cigarette he's halfway through with. Blake instinctively yanks it out of reach.

"Don't make a promise you can't keep." He chides. "Though I meant what I said. You coming with me when all this is over."

"That's exactly it. I'm not thinking that far ahead." Blake takes in a long breath and leans against Bane's side. It's amazing how...peaceful Gotham looks from a distance. He supposes there's a metaphor in there somewhere. "It's...not a hard _no_. Just...I have to focus on the now."

Bane pets his hair. A knowing gesture.

"Speaking of the now...when we get back you need to set a meeting with Bruce. Preferably within the week, with our new shipments."

Bane must feel his grin, because he sighs with an uncharacteristic sharpness.

"I guarantee _nothing-_ "

"Thank you." Blake hooks his arm around his neck he pushes his face into Bane's chest, as if to let the words settle there. "...for at least giving me a chance."

"...Mm."

They don't dwell on the unsaid yet. The night is still young. Bane lets him touch him. There's not as much of a rush this time around, though it certainly isn't for lack of desire. Blake's cigarette has been discarded to bleed out the rest of its life on the ground beside them, now snugly in Bane's lap and enjoying the steady press of their hips. He's hard again and the detective rocks gently, lazily.

"You asked what I wanted to tell you over the phone that day..." Bane's voice carries strangely over the cold air. "I wanted to tell you that I've dreamt of your smile before."

Blake pauses in the middle of nibbling his jaw.

"My...smile?"

"Yes." The cold front of his mask nudges against his cheek as he turns to him. "...Do you find that strange?"

"No! No. Well. A little. It's...I just don't get people saying that sort of thing to me...is all." He chuckles, shakily, trying to take the potential edge from his words. It sounds just as awkward as he feels. He's glad the dark can hide the sudden nervousness from his face...though it's not like the dark could hide much from Bane, really. A lingering touch along the curve of his ass, a few prodding fingers where his jeans still slip low. Then Bane's hand is holding his cheek.

"Because they don't look past _this_." A thumb on his cheekbone, then traveling down to pet the corner of his mouth. "They see what they want to see and that's a shame. It got me through illness and sleepness nights alike, this." His hand moves through his hair, pulling him close and holding his forehead to his. "You help make this _damned_ life bearable."

The detective's breath shakes unreliably in his throat. They're both trembling from the cold, yet the warmth nestled between their bodies acts the part of an open flame as they take their time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into the writing process:
> 
> *can't sleep*
> 
> *reads fanfiction or TVTropes.org or movie reviews to help me sleep*
> 
> *one in the morning and am still awake and now inspired*
> 
> _guess I'll write_


	53. Could Be Hope, Could Be Something Else

"Barbara?!"

It fucking can't be.

"Wait, what are you _doing_ here?"

Bruce had agreed to meet with him over the phone. Much more eagerly than he'd expected, really, and Blake had to bite down his paranoia to keep him from giving away his entire deal on an unsecure channel. Maybe the guy was just glad to know he was still in one piece...or maybe he was starting to feel the weight of not having the money or connections he used to. Either way, Blake was sure his good luck was finally hitting its peak. A little late, but better late than never or some such crap.

Then Barbara, of _all_ people, shows up at the meeting and he's hitting the ground and getting rug burns. He looks to Selina, who proceeds to explain by yanking her sidways at Harleen, who's pretending she doesn't see by looking straight up at the sky. Because he needed yet another roll of the dice.

Barbara hugs him tightly. He thinks she may have tears in her eyes.

"It's been crazy with you gone. Grandpa's still being held, but your friends told me what's going on. I wasn't sure what they were talking about at first, then...oh. Oh, no, you're _limping_ -" She reaches out to his leg, then yanks her hand back like it's still a fresh wound. "Selina told me, but I didn't realize how bad it was...what happened to your head? Oh, that looks awful."

"Foley and some other person I didn't catch when I fled the library." He says, wryly, giving Harleen one more foreboding glower for good measure before looking Barbara over. She seems no worse for the wear, though he doesn't like the dark circles beneath her eyes at all. "It's healed, though. Just a limp and some aches."

"I'm so sorry, Blake." She stares at him with watery brown eyes. Damn it. He was glad to see her. The circumstances, though... "You shouldn't have gone through this at _all_."

"He has been through much, much worse." Comes a simple answer from a few feet away. "He will endure."

The young woman freezes...then slowly turns and looks behind her.

"...Oh my _god_." Barbara breathes, then she actually steps in front of Blake. "Get back!"

"Wait. It's fine." Blake starts, putting a hand on her shoulder to keep her from lashing out. God, she's changed in the time he's been away. She was protective, of her family and ideals, _sure_ , but it was the general concern of a studious young woman with a bright future. Barbara is looking like she's about to straight-up tackle Bane like a _linebacker_.

"I won't let him hurt you. Whatever he's doing this time, I won't _let_ him." She's not overreacting, not necessarily, but it certainly _looks_ that way with Bane just...leaning against the closed van door with his arms folded over his chest. A look on his face like he saw something mildly embarrassing but is too polite to point it out.

"So...?" She prompts when he doesn't speak, cheeks flushing with anger. "You have nothing to say, Bane?"

"...Hm. You seem a little young to be here." Bane muses, rather than the grisly threat or smooth jibe she was probably expecting. Barbara looks like she's just been slapped.

"I'm..." She begins, then clears her throat hurriedly and snaps, "I'm an _adult_. If there's anyone who shouldn't be here it's _you._ "

" _Ah_." Bane says, and his expression hardens like stone. "Then I won't be held responsible for any mistakes you feel like making, Ms. Gordon."

"How _dare_ you-" She clenches her fists. Blake quickly stands between them in a motion he's sure he's going to have to repeat _very_ soon. "After what you did!"

"Stop. _Stop_. We're going to talk about this inside." Blake interrupts quickly, moving his head to catch her gaze when it threatens to lock on Bane again. He glances over his shoulder at him with an expression he hopes communicates, " _For fuck's sake, behave yourself._ " Bane just cocks an eyebrow and wordlessly waits for them to walk inside before following. It'll have to do. There was no getting Barbara to leave now, so he'd have to be tugged along by good faith all over again.

Here's hoping it had a slightly better result than being dipped in below-freezing water.

"What's...going on?" She asks as Blake pushes a hand against her back. "I don't...this doesn't make any sense."

"It's only going to get stranger." Is his grim response.

Barsad had picked the place -- the second-in-command had bribed the owner of an antique warehouse to turn the other cheek. Blake had worried it was too isolated to convince Bruce, but they didn't exactly have a lot to work with. With Blake still having a warrant out for his arrest and Bane being...well, _Bane_ they had to either stay low or go somewhere where they wouldn't stand out.

Everything smells of dust, wood and very faintly of mold. It's a little dark, but not so dark he can't see the piles of tarp-covered furniture wrapping around nearly every inch of the space. Bruce and Alfred wait in the middle of the massive room, considerably dressed down. Even then, Alfred's rather crisply ironed polo and slacks wouldn't put him out-of-place at a golf club meeting. The old man smiles pleasantly when he walks inside, standing up to pull out one of the chairs for him. A nice gesture, but it probably wasn't going to last long.

"That's...a few more guests than I thought you'd bring." Bruce says with a glance at Barbara. His voice becomes sad. "I didn't realize you were involved, too."

"She's not the only one." Blake mutters.

"Bruce...Wayne?" She says, carefully, like she's not sure if he's a very effective clone. "I heard you'd disappeared..."

Bane, right on cue, walks inside. The masked man looks around him for a moment, admiring his surroundings with an appreciative nod, then he slowly turns his attention to the two men frozen in shock across the room.

"Good to see you again, Bruce."

\--

Blake leans back in his chair and tries to glance at everyone in turn without them catching on. He feels like he's in the most surreal Renaissance painting ever created.

Bruce sits on the opposite end of the long wooden desk pulled from the warehouse's storage to act as their roundtable, flanked on his right by Alfred and his left by Selina. Harleen has her feet propped from where she sits in the middle, loudly smacking gum much to Barsad's visible annoyance against the far wall behind her. Barbara is pretending to look at something on her phone on the other side, but her eyes aren't roaming. Bane is to Blake's right and the only one not sitting, hands folded behind his back as he stares impassively ahead.

Nobody looks like they want to be there, save for Harleen who keeps gaping up at the antique cat clock in the corner like she's thinking of snatching it.

It had been a monumental effort to keep Bruce and Alfred from running straight out of the room. It had been something else entirely to get them to listen to him. To Bane's credit, he actually stayed _quiet_ while Blake caught them both up to speed as quickly as he could in the span between their shock and mounting anger. Instead of, well. A repeat of what happened at the library, except with far fewer people to get in the way. It gives Blake the tiniest bit of hope that the meeting could be something other than a complete disaster.

Alfred is insistent alcohol can wait until _after_ they're done. Selina isn't pleased.

"I'll say it straight." Bruce says, eyes crushed shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "This isn't exactly what I had planned."

"You can say _that_ again." Selina mumbles, already off to her own bad start.

"Oh my god. He's _never_ gonna believe me..." Barbara all but moans into her hand.

Harleen frowns sympathetically at her. Barsad, on the other hand, offers nothing, nestled in the corner of the room behind Bane and staring out the shuttered window with his usual sleepy stare. It's deceptively casual. Blake knows him well enough by now to know he's listening closely to every single word. Even with his arms folded and his weapon slung across his back, that rifle will be aimed with deadly accuracy should anything go wrong. He wishes this knowledge comforted him.

"So." Bruce begins, tightly. "Explain before I change my mind."

Blake takes a deep breath and decides to go with the most obvious detail first.

"Back at the cave I told you Jonathan Crane is on the loose. You probably figured that out from the toxin appearances alone. What I _didn't_ tell you is that Miranda Tate is Talia al Ghul."

Bruce's eyes widen. Selina stiffens, glances to him, then hastily looks away again. There's more history there, but he'll be damned if he knows what _that_ is, either. He wonders if he'll ever know what's going on between those two. It's likely romantic, but the chemistry between them seems less loving and more like an ongoing feud that never ended.

"That's..." Bruce is visibly chilled. Blake didn't have to be a vindictive twat to feel a _little_ smug at getting the man back on the topic of devastating news. "...Ra's' daughter...? That _can't_ be."

"Miranda Tate was an alias." Bane's voice rumbles beside him. It's a redundant thing to say, and intentionally so. There's a wicked gleam to his eyes that wasn't there before. "Much like yours, Bruce. A means to an end...which means everything you know about her, or believe you know, is false."

"What proof do you have of this, Blake?" Bruce pointedly refuses to look at Bane or even acknowledge what he said. "That this isn't just _another_ lie you're bringing to the table."

Third time's the charm. Blake plays the recording again...and makes a mental note to destroy it once this was all over. Barbara is wide-eyed from where she sits, huddled a little like she's not particularly keen on standing out. Bruce looks like he's going to be sick, but to the man's credit he reigns it in well enough to keep the conversation going.

"She mentioned you when we spoke the other day. I thought it was odd, but... " Bruce whispers, breathlessly, then he shakes his head. "Were you going to take this to Gordon? Even after you quit. I know you worked under him for a time. He would've still taken this information to someone who could help."

"I thought about it. Bane wanted to take care of her instead, but..." Blake doesn't finish. He knows Bane would rather speak for himself. It's the right decision to make -- when he turns to look at the masked man he's met with a challenging glare.

"...She is my responsibility. Even so, she is Ra's' daughter and never one to take confinement lightly." Bane says once it's clear Blake has given him the floor. "I kept her locked away when Blake revealed her plans for the city over four months ago. She had, however, ended up escaping with the help of a few of my mercenaries. Whether through bribing or coercion is unsure, but what is sure is that the reactor is in our care and many of those she swayed to her side are dead. We have been searching for her, and the rest, ever since."

"Who knew a bomb could have such terrifying consequences?" Bruce drones.

"Had you done your job _correctly_ , Bruce, there would _be_ no bomb." Bane says, smooth as silk, but Blake can see the faintest twitch to his fingers from where his hands remain folded behind his back. They've gotten this far, but he wasn't going to take any chances.

"Secrets, grudges, whatever you have just put it to the side _now._ " Blake is starting to really appreciate the hard work that goes into mediating. "We're all here because the city's safety is on the line."

"...and part of that is Bane's fault." Selina says. "I'm starting to think you don't have a very good idea on how to keep people safe, Blake, much less the city."

"What can I say. I keep my friends close and my enemies closer." Blake answers with a shrug. Whatever casual air he was going for, though, is scraped dry when Harleen quirks her mouth dramatically.

"Yeah, _about_ that..." She starts, flicking her eyes back and forth between Bane in lieu of saying something far more incriminating. Barbara frowns and trails after her gaze, clearly not following her train of thought. Alfred appears a little scandalized by the suggestion. Bane, however, looks aggressively bored.

"If you have something useful to contribute, Ms. Quinzel..." He says, bluntly. "...by all means share it with the rest of the class."

"I'm just sayin' there might be a conflict of interest goin' on here." Her tone is friendly, like it always is, but the look in her eyes certainly is not. Her viewpoints on Bane were about as easy to follow as her thought process -- she seemed to relish in the recent chaos, but she also made it clear in the past she didn't entirely trust him. Her history with the Joker filled in a few of those gaps, at least, but Blake really _was_ hoping she wouldn't be the one to pick a fight with him.

"Then you would do well to shine a similar spotlight on Ms. Kyle." Bane murmurs, unaffected. "Surely a fair trial is not completely foreign to you."

"What do you know about a fair trial?" Barbara whispers in a small, yet angry tone. It's startling how much she stands out compared to everyone else at the table. "You're a murderer."

"Are you startled by the blood on my hands?" Bane snorts. The young woman squirms uncomfortably under his scrutiny. "Strange, when you care so much for your grandfather. For your good friend, Blake."

Bruce, who had been appearing to think deeply, holds up a hand for their silence. Everyone falls quiet.

"So let me get this straight. Ra's excommunicated you. Talia abandoned you. Your army isn't even as large as it used to be." He narrows his eyes at Bane, voice lowering derisively. "All to craft a bomb that's now stuck in the middle of a city during lockdown with crime waves up and two insane killers on the loose."

"And what conclusion has your _brilliant_ mind reached?"

"...That you clearly reached your prime in the _pit_."

If a pin dropped they could hear it. Selina's brown eyes slowly drag down the length of the table. Alfred takes a deep breath and nervously adjusts his collar. Harleen's brows are raised so high they nearly disappear into her bangs. Barsad has turned away from the window. One by one all heads slowly, carefully, turn to Bane.

He's still.

' _Please, Bane._ ' Blake thinks as he stares at Bane's rigid form. ' _ **Please** just let this roll off your back._ '

Blake feels something about to give in the pit of his stomach mere seconds before the masked man grabs the table with both hands, heaves it _flying_ to one side and lunges through the open gap.

It's all he can do to dive out of the way. The table hits the floor and slides many feet away with an alarming _screech_ , leaving chalky white trails in its wake before it hits the far wall. Blake wasn't the only one on jumped-up nerves, it seems, as Selina and Harleen have cleared the area (with the latter having caught Alfred before he fell over) and are shouting in alarm as Bane does his absolute best to murder Bruce right in front of them.

"Holy _shit_ -"

" _Watch out!_ "

There are no impressive punches or sweeping kicks. Bane has tackled the man to the floor with the full force of his weight and is just trying to _strangle_ him. Bruce kicks him in the stomach, unsuccessfully at first because the masked man is built like a brick wall, then again, then _again_ , knocking him off and buying himself just enough time to scramble away. Like an insane creature Bane dives forward to grab him by his ankle and yank him back.

He's kicked sharply in the face. Bane _snarls_ , then returns the sentiment with a nasty punch to Bruce's gut, one that has him doubling over and wheezing for air. The brawl is messy, uncoordinated, little more than raw instinct and hate colliding together.

Alfred pulls out a small pistol and aims. Blake whips up his hands. Not again. _Not again._

"No, wait!" He yells. "Don't!"

"Move, Blake." He says, without even a tremble in his voice. "Now."

"I said put the gun _down!_ " It's not that he's afraid for Bane. He's afraid for _Alfred_. The masked man had been dismissive of him, at best, but if Bruce's butler actually _shot_ him...

A deafening _shatter_. Then a shrill, terrified scream. Blake whirls around just in time to see Bane picking up one of the wooden chairs in one hand. It seems the first had gone straight through the far window. The second hits the wall where the dark knight was standing and splinters into pieces. Barbara is shaking off a shower of glass from where she's boxed against the wall between the corner and the table.

Another _thud_ as the two men wrestle into the ground. Bruce rolls away, though not a moment too soon -- Bane sends his fist right into the floor where his head used to be and leaves an actual _hole_ in the wood. The masked man then lunges to his feet and sends another punch straight through the wall like it's made out of paper. Blake takes that moment to grab Barbara's arm and pull her back, trying to get her as far away from the fight as possible.

"Blake, oh my god-" She's stammering, glass glinting in her hair. "What the hell...!"

"He's not going to hurt you, it's Bruce-" He's trying to explain, even though _no_ explanation could make the clusterfuck unfolding before them any more palatable.

Everyone drops to the floor when a warning shot goes off. Blake looks up past his outstretched hands to see a smoking hole right by Bane's feet. It's a testament to how far gone he is that he's actually _slow_ to notice. At first he takes another few thunderous steps toward Bruce...then he pauses. He looks around at them, then down at the floor. Bane shoots Alfred a single, _murderous_ glare before getting a right hook across the face.

The second doesn't connect, not when he grapples Bruce's incoming arm, yanks him forward and _slams_ his head against his. In his stunned state Bane grabs him by the throat.

Barsad is pointing his rifle at Alfred's _head_ and warning him to put his gun down. Blake can actually see his finger twitching on the trigger, mere seconds from pulling and killing the man where he stands. Harleen looks at Blake, looks at Alfred, then reaches down and pulls a gun on Barsad in some snap decision, yelling something he can't hear over the chaos. Someone's going to die if he doesn't do something.

Bane has Bruce pinned to the wall, both hands clamped around his windpipe and holding him firm a foot from the ground. Bruce grapples at his hands, trying to peel back his fingers, face turning a horrible shade of blue-

A sharp _crack_ pierces the air.

Bane freezes...then he hits the ground with a heavy _thud_ and starts to spasm. Bruce slides down the wall a split-second later, coughing and gagging and clutching his bruised neck. Barsad has turned away from Alfred, gun still raised even as his face is drawn tight with horror.

"... _Jesus_." Selina whispers, warily watching the blue electricity blinking along the end of Blake's staff.

" _Lunatic_." Bruce says when he finally has enough air, struggling to his feet only to fall forward again. His skin is shining with sweat and there's a nasty gash along his cheek. "Goddamn _lunatic._ "

Alfred shoves the pistol in his holster with shaking hands and reaches forward to help him up. Bruce pushes him away, which is just as well.

"See, _this_ is what I'm talking about" He starts, still coughing raggedly. "The man's insane, I told you-"

Another _crack_.

Alfred gasps when Bruce collapses in a mirror image of Bane, body wobbling in fits as electricity works through his body. Selina takes a few steps back, thrusting a protective arm in front of Harleen. Blake doesn't electrocute her. He _does_ , however, turn and point his staff to each one in turn.

"Guns. Down. _Now_."

The ones in question slowly look at each other...then lower their weapons. Harleen takes a little longer to comply, her bright blue eyes not leaving Bane for one second, but she eventually aims her pistol to the ground.

The area around them is all but destroyed -- chunks of the ruined chairs littering the floor (with a goddamn _hole_ in it, dear god-), broken windows, the overturned table. The only thing that survived the carnage is the old cat clock, still grinning maniacally like a tickled bystander. For a few moments not a single person in the room says a word, the _tick-tick_ of the clockhands etching into the silence with the subtlety of a nail on a chalkboard. Then-

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?!" Blake roars. He's not just angry. He's _furious_.

"That's...that's one of _mine_..." Bruce wheezes, staring at the staff still aimed menacingly at his face. "How-"

"You..." Bane's eyes are round with anger. There's a swollen cut on his cheekbone from where Bruce's heel had connected with his face. "... _You_..." He tries to get up again and jerks in pain.

"Have you completely lost your goddamn mind?!" For a moment Bane can't seem to move at all. Twitching on his side like a stunned bird. For one fleeting moment Blake's worried he's used too high of a voltage. Then he lets out a hard gasp and straightens out as the electricity starts to work its way back out. The man rolls over and leans up onto his elbows, head bowed low between his arms as he struggles to get the spasms under control.

"If you..." His skin is flushed red from the pain. "...were not already _recovering_..."

"Or what?" Blake yells down at him. "Or you'd _what_ , Bane?"

"Be careful. You make him angry and he may just break your back and throw you into the pit." Bruce adds, unhelpfully, holding his stomach and grabbing the overturned table leg for support. "I'm sure you'd make a great addition to his little set-up."

"Not helping!" Blake snaps. Bane chuckles, a dark and nasty sound that oozes out of his mask like oil. Even _Harleen_ looks a little creeped out. She takes another slow step closer to where everyone is standing clustered together.

"Ah, yes. That is _quite_ rich, when you have used Gotham as _your_ personal playground for years." Bane hisses as he rises unsteadily to his feet, swaying like he's drunk. "How many pits have you thrown people into, Bruce? How many have suffered from your short-sighted decisions? Your delusions of _grandeur?_ "

"And just how different are _you_ , Bane?" Selina interjects angrily. "You're acting out a rebellion fantasy that got the entire city cut off from the rest of the world with a bomb smack-dab in the middle of it. Call me crazy, but whatever you were going for seems to have gone a little south."

"None of this would have happened if _you_ hadn't locked me in a room with him." Bruce snaps. He tries to push Alfred away when he stands, but the old man doggedly holds onto his arm. "I made a big mistake trusting you _twice_. Trusting _any_ of you, for that matter!"

"Okay, _what?_ " Blake says. He's getting a clearer picture _and_ growing more lost by the second. "Locked you...?"

"He would have killed me otherwise?" Selina shoots back. "Or did you forget that little detail?"

"Okay, just hold the fuck _up-_ " Blake's temper is starting to fray. Would they all stop arguing for one damn _second?_

"Do you normally fraternize with men who claim to go against the system while simultaneously supporting its very roots?" Bane interjects with the sort of silky smooth glee that _nobody_ needs right now. "Lest you forget, I set you _free_ , Ms. Kyle. If you would forgive me the assumption, Blackgate does not seem your fancy."

"Yeah, yeah. I suppose that's _one_ thing you got going for you." Selina mutters, then shoots a dark glance at Blake.

"For the love of..." The detective groans, dragging both hands down his face. Through his fingers he sees Harleen grinning and leaning back on the only chair that wasn't knocked over. She's pretending to hold a tub of popcorn, popping invisible pieces into her mouth. At least _someone_ was enjoying themselves.

"I _would_ say he has a few more, but my common sense is begging to differ." Bruce watches him with thinly-veiled disgust. "I really thought Gotham found someone better to take my place."

 _Now_ Blake truly loses his patience. He storms through the small gap and gets right up in the man's face.

"I'm sorry? Come _again?_ You lived in an entirely different Gotham than most people, Bruce. Don't act like you know this city when you never faced a _fifth_ of what me or all the other kids I grew up with went through! What people are going through right _now!_ " He jabs a finger at him. "I respect you putting your life on the line to catch criminals, that you stopped the Joker, but you've got some _real_ nerve pretending you see everything from your ivory tower."

"Did you forget the part where I went bankrupt?" Bruce adds, drily. Barsad wrinkles his nose at that. The cat burglar seems to share a similar sentiment.

"Bankrupt with a hideout filled with expensive gadgets and your very own butler? Sign me up, then." Selina chuckles behind her hand. Alfred glances to one side, like he can't find it in himself to even stand up for Bruce on _that_ particular detail.

"Wealth I used to give Gotham the hero they _needed_." Bruce spreads his arms exasperatedly. "And what they needed was peace. Not _more_ destruction in the name of a vendetta. Look _around_ you, Blake. It's chaos!"

"What we needed was the _truth_." Blake all but snarls. "Don't you dare suggest what's happening is because you didn't hide the truth _well_ enough."

"Coming from someone who lied to my _face_ after being sheltered and patched up. Lied to Gordon. Barbara, too, by the looks of it. " He shoots back. "Will you do anything to get what you want?"

"I'm a detective. I go where others won't and where they _can't_." His smile turns mean. "Didn't you get Alfred to put a tracking device in me without my permission?"

Harleen's jaw drops. Bruce's face flushes a deep red, with embarrassment or anger or both. Selina is giving him an _ugly_ look.

"What the hell." Barbara whispers from where she stands as far away from them as she can get, voice small and more than a little afraid. " _This_ is what you've been doing all this time...?"

Blake can soothe her hackles later. He whirls on Bane, the fury in his eyes enough to make even _him_ visibly tense.

"And _you_! You're a newcomer. You have no idea what we've all been going through for years. You think you know what's best for us? You didn't even decide what was best for your own daughter and _we_ have to deal with it now." His voice raises. " _Don't_ give me that look! I- _we_ -don't have time to tip-toe around you. You have the reactor now, but she was pretty damn deadset on her plan to fuck up the city."

"Wait, the reactor? The _nuclear_ reactor?" Bruce says, a little faintly. Like it hasn't truly sunk in until just now. "To think. Ra's had solved only half of the equation by disavowing you."

"Don't get too high and mighty." Blake snaps. "Didn't you go against your own code of honor and kill him?" Alfred and Barsad exchange tense looks. It's funny, seeing these two on polar opposite sides finding a temporary middle ground. Then again, maybe not. They, essentially, filled the same role.

"I didn't kill him." Bruce doesn't seem to notice Bane visibly shaking. "He made his bed and laid in it. I simply chose not to _save_ him."

" _That was not your decision to make!_ "

For the second time that day everyone is dead silent. Bane's eyes are round, _wild_ , and if Blake didn't have his staff held tightly in one hand he would've thought he'd shocked him all over again. He's never heard him _scream_ before.

"He was ours." Bane says, his voice strained like every single syllable is a monumental effort. Blake feels that same terrible pitch in his gut. He holds up the staff again, even as he _hates_ doing so, and keeps it leveled between him and Bruce. "He was _ours!_ "

"What do you mean, 'ours'?" Bruce is already holding out an arm in preparation for another attack. "He was a sick man with a sick legacy who the world is better off without-"

" _We_ were to kill him! You had nothing near the same history as we did. You took him from us, a decision that was not _yours_ -"

There it was. The rotting obsession that Blake had thought better off ignored, or excused, or anything other than being outright confronted. He knew he hated Bruce. But that hate, all this time, was because of a lost opportunity at revenge? For someone he was going to try and kill _anyway_? Just trying to follow the logic makes his already aching head spin.

Blake had tried to piece this mystery together during idle moments. He had thought Bane had, maybe, wanted payback for Bruce killing his old teacher. Alongside viewing him as a piss-poor guardian. Instead it seems Ra's had hurt both him and Talia, terribly, _somehow_ , but whether or not he was going to share further details wasn't the problem right now. It was whether or not he could reign himself back just long enough to keep Gotham safe.

"Bane. He's dead and you're both still alive. You control the League now. Even the Lazarus Pit." Blake is stunned to hear the faintest shred of sympathy in Bruce's voice. "He _chose_ his path and so did Talia-"

"Keep her name..." Bane snarls. "... _out_ of your mouth!"

"-and you've done nothing but dwell on the memory of psychopaths who used you instead of moving on. That's nobody's fault but your _own_ -"

" _Enough!_ "

Both men look to Blake, angrily, only to eye the staff with a little more caution. It's a smart reaction, because he's more than willing to use it as a proverbial cattle prod to keep them both in line.

"The more we argue the more time they both have to make everyone in this city go batshit insane." He's starting to feel the weariness of the entire meeting settling into him, but he'd rest once he was sure they were all going to work together. "This can wait!"

"Arguing...you think I'm arguing, John?" Bane rolls his neck. "I am warning...all of you...to stay _out_ of my way."

"And I'm telling _you_ , right now, that this city needs us to work together..." Blake says, lifting up his chin. "...and you don't solely know what's best for it."

The itch of another fight is in the air as they stare each other down. Bane's chest is visibly rising and falling with every angry breath. Barsad is twitching, strangely, the normally unflappable man looking like he's at his breaking point. A trickle of sympathy filters through Blake, but he doesn't shake Bane's gaze. The man needed to know at least _one_ person in the room wasn't going to bow to his anger, no matter where it may lay on the scale of justification.

The tension cracks when Harleen gasps.

" _...Oh_." She looks between Bane and Blake and back again with growing triumph in her eyes. "I knew it. I _knew_ it."

Selina's dry chuckle follows. "...Wow. I can't believe I'm siding with Static Shock here."

Blake finally breaks Bane's gaze to glance at her. "Static Shock?"

"Yeah, that's what I'm calling you from now on."

"No, you're not."

"Yeah, I am. Bruce." She turns to him. "I hate to admit it, but we're all between a rock and a hard place. You have a way to get to Miranda, now that you know who she really is. She doesn't, however, know that _you_ know. If you use that to your advantage we could already be down one problem. Then Blake said she was working _with_ Crane. This toxin has been bad news for months."

Harleen droops visibly at the mention. Selina pats her friend's shoulder. "Hey. You've been tripping him up. That's something."

"I guess so, huh?" Harleen says with a tiny smile. "Slowed him down a little?"

"Wait..." Barbara blinks. "Are you talking about what happened at The Narrows? That was _you?_ "

"Me and Sherlock." In a flash Harleen is smiling again. "Yeah, I kinda forgot to mention that back at the orphanage...alongside the whole meetin' Bane thing. I swear I'm not as mean as I look."

"If you both want to tear each other apart..." Selina continues, blandly enough to suggest she wouldn't mind all _too_ much. "... _after_ the danger's over, then be my guest. I'll even take pictures. But until then, we need to focus on the most immediate threats." She mutters her last comment out the side of her mouth. "As much as I'd _love_ to pack my bags and piss off to a studio rental in Metropolis."

For a second Blake starts to breathe easier. She was one of the toughest ones to convince. Then she points at Bane and makes him tense all over again.

"But I won't..." She emphasizes with a twist to her upper lip. "...work alongside this crazy son-of-a-bitch."

"Now that just hurts my _feelings_ , Selina." Bane drawls like it's not even possible for him to give less of a shit. Selina's eyes narrow into hateful slits.

"We'll play off of _all_ our strengths." Blake stresses. "But that means we have to put old grudges on hold. That's the point of a truce, remember?"

Harleen takes this moment to pipe up. He appreciates how easily she can read a room and keep good momentum going. Even if she brought Barbara to what was supposed to be a _secret_ meeting.

"Hey, so. I got a friend who might be able to help us. She ain't what I'd call a party girl, but I'm sure we can run her a few favors to get on her good side." She blinks at the blank stares she receives. "What? Oh. She's a scientist. Well, _was_ a scientist. Big fat degree in herbology, biology, all that good stuff. She knows what she's doin' or my name ain't Harley Quinn. Which it ain't."

"How will that help our immediate problem, though?" Bruce says, tiredly. He's not the only one looking worn out. Everyone looks exhausted from the past ten minutes' adrenaline rush. Blake glances at the clock on the wall again. No. It's been _much_ longer.

"She might have a way to clear out the air all over the city. Faster than normal trees." Harleen clarifies. "Been talkin' with her and she can do some wicked things with plants. ... _Not_ drugs, c'mon." She emphasizes when she sees Barbara's pinched expression.

"So where is the 'might' coming from?" Bruce says with one of his characteristic frowns. Harleen droops again. As much as the man was a paranoid stick-in-the-mud, he _was_ asking the right questions.

"I remember you told me about her. Pamela, I think?" Blake offers, as kindly as he can while wanting to kick Bruce in the shin.

"Yeah, that's her. She _really_ doesn't like people. Kinda hates 'em, if we're bein' honest here. She talks to _me_ , but..." She wrings a finger in her curls. "But I'm sure she'll come around."

"Wonderful. A real justice league we got here." Bruce sighs as he looks at them one-by-one. "We have a burglar, a retired cop, the Commissioner's granddaughter and a bunch of terrorists who want to hire a mythical hippie who _hates_ people to try and make Gotham eco-friendly. If I didn't know any better I would've thought I inhaled some of Crane's toxin myself."

"It's worth a shot, isn't it?" Blake says, snapping his staff back down to size and shoving it into his jacket. "Get to Talia through Bruce, then get to Crane through Talia. While the Department and Waller and everyone else twiddles their thumbs we can find a way to keep any more toxin from spreading. We can all split into teams so we can cover more corners of the city at once. I'm sure we can find a combination that works for everybody."

"So, we got a vote on workin' together?" Harleen nudges Selina with a grin. "Come on. Raise your hand or it's not authentic."

Selina scowls at her...then slowly raises one hand. Barsad, still quietly leaning back over on the far wall with his rifle nestled in the crook of his arm, raises a hand. Bane narrows his eyes. Barsad pointedly avoids his gaze. It was a good start. But they still had...

"I can't."

Barbara still looks, frankly, terrified.

"He's...no. _No._ I can't work with the man that tried to kill my grandpa." She looks to Blake, desperately, and takes his hand as if to drive her point home. "Who _kidnapped_ you. I just can't. This is crazy. He just tried to kill Bruce, just now!"

"I'm not asking you to forgive him. Or anybody in this room, for that matter. Myself included." Blake squeezes her hand tightly. "We could use your help in this, Barbara."

"I...but..." He has to give her credit. She's close to a snap decision, one buoyed by her love for her grandfather and her too-rosy view on Gotham, but she doesn't quite make the plunge. "...I can try."

"Are you sure?" Blake asks. "You can't tell anyone about this."

"It's not the first secret I've kept." Barbara shakes her head. "But afterwards..."

Afterwards? Hell, he wasn't even thinking that far ahead. He knows Bane and Bruce are going to be back at each other's necks the moment it's all over. Selina was going to leave, most likely and Harleen, like usual, was about as predictable as a lottery machine. As for him...

"Then that makes all of us." Blake turns to face Bruce. "What'll it be?"

The former billionaire drags a palm across his face to smudge back the worst of the blood. He's hunched over a little and Blake can already see his back wound still hasn't fully healed. The unbridled hate in his eyes, from the stoic dark knight and outgoing public persona he knows, is unsettling.

"When this is over..." Bruce begins, and Blake tenses and hopes he doesn't undermine _everything_ with another threat, but that's not what happens. Everyone visibly holds their breath when Bruce cuts himself off and simply extends his hand to Bane. "...until then, we'll work together."

Bane slowly looks down at it. As if Bruce had just handed him a hunk of roadkill.

"...for now."

He brushes past Bruce, not gently, and stalks past the wreckage, over the broken glass littering the floor and out the open door. Barsad wordlessly leans up off the wall and follows. Selina tells Harleen she owes her a drink and storms out, hair billowing around her shoulders as she steps back out into the cold afternoon. Harleen plucks the cat clock off the wall and tucks it under her arm before following her. One-by-one they leave...except for Barbara, who stares like she doesn't even know him anymore.

"What the hell?" She says with a slow, marveling shake of her head, never once taking her eyes off him. Blake leans against the wall, lays his head back and lets out a long, slow sigh.

"Good fucking question."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I want the fic to go into completely different directions. More thriller-esque. More action. More romance. But there's only so much any single story can have. Instead of trying (and inevitably failing) to make one piece of writing fulfill everything, I hope The Calm Beneath The Waves does a few things very well.
> 
> ...Also, did you know 'urbane' is an adjective for someone who's cultured or sophisticated? Chalk that up to _another_ translation to this guy's name.
> 
>  
> 
> also tfw you don't wanna edit the tags 'cause you don't wanna spoil anything quite yet


	54. Rationality

"He'll keep his word." Bruce says as he finishes punching the last of their notes into his phone. "It's one of his two good qualities."

"Yeah? What's the other?"

"He's photogenic."

Keeping the peace is much harder than it looks. Blake's glad Bruce didn't get cold feet once the meeting was over. Nobody did, so far, but he's been checking in over the following days anyway to ensure this tenuous foundation would stay together just long enough to get Gotham out of hot water. Barsad was resigned to the cause -- on-edge in his own quiet and unassuming way, but resigned. So was Harleen, more or less. Selina kept making little snide jabs about pissing off when their backs were turned, but he's learned by now it's just her acerbic personality.

Harleen is going to pair with him to seek out the elusive Pamela Isley, 'missing' for the better part of two years. Considering Gotham only had so many patches of greenery in its urban hellscape, it was only a matter of time before her location was narrowed down according to her _very_ specific interests. Harleen told him she had cobbled together a few different retreats over the years, but she remained convinced she'd be stashed away past the East End boondocks near the defunct Plant Factory. He would have to take her word for it.

On the other end Selina was pairing with Barsad and Barbara to sneak into the Gotham City Police Department. The latter, much to her chagrin, was deemed by the former two to be a rather useful distraction to get inside _and_ outside of the main building without too much scrutiny. She may be Gordon's granddaughter, yes, and _his_ friend...but according to Barbara she's all been written off as a suspect a while ago because of a 'conflict in curfew'.

" _At least, that's what's said on paper._ " She'd said to him earlier today. " _Grandpa still has a lot of folks on his side...it's more a favor to him than anything, I suspect._ "

" _Don't tell him I said hi._ " Blake had responded, much lighter than he'd felt knowing the man was still being kept under lock and key on his behalf.

Using Bruce's unique cameras and Selina's five-fingered expertise Barbara was going to get as much information she could on the Department's routes, schedules and anything else that could get the League out of the city unseen. They may be skilled, but they were only human and still outnumbered against an entire city on lockdown, at that. They've been having more than a little trouble trying to secure a route out of the city with their small militia and the cracks were really starting to show. Every last person was stressed out and stretched thin. Even Bane.

Barbara was still stunned by what she saw (and made no bones about how worried she was for his mental health, like he could really lay claim to such an ideal term at this point). That was alongside finding out Bruce Wayne was the legendary Batman all along -- although Blake didn't tell her explicitly, she had a working pair of eyes and ears. She pieced together more than enough during their meeting and it was clear by her unnaturally polite demeanor whenever they spoke she was _really_ struggling with having to sink or swim.

The only major point of sympathy he could afford is that she wasn't supposed to be involved in the _first_ place. Not when he was too busy thinking about Bane working alongside Bruce.

Talia was going to be lured out. They would both make sure, this time, she didn't get away. She and Bruce would meet (for a date or a business meeting, whichever) somewhere that wasn't too isolated or too secluded. Bruce the bait...and Bane the trap. Until then, Blake has been discussing with Gotham's hidden protector all morning long how best to prepare for Scarecrow. He's provided every last shred of information he thinks could be helpful, from how the toxin reacts poorly to smoke to the weird 'dreams' he's still having. 

It was the last meeting they'd have in person before going to their respective assignments. No stone left unturned...and that included the personal ones.

"Just don't let Talia cut you." Blake stresses with a tired hand in his hair. He hasn't eaten in hours. "What happened to Harleen at The Narrows was just as bad as breathing the stuff in."

"It was a brave thing you tried to do, though it's a real shame it took putting a warrant out for your arrest for you to finally start covering your face." Bruce says as they're wrapping up. It's been hours of comparing and contrasting notes, pulling up news stories and debating the finer points of force and subtlety. Their differing methods have been grating together like rust in a gear -- every time they hit a similar train-of-thought, which was often, they would inevitably diverge on a course of action. Bruce always wanted to wait. Blake always wanted to act.

"I'm not afraid to be standing up to people." Blake counters.

"The mask isn't for _you_." Bruce raises an eyebrow, as if this is something he should've figured out a long time ago. "It's for the people you care about."

"Yeah, well." Blake grabs his bag and hauls it over one shoulder. "Little late for that now, isn't it?"

"Far from it. Everyone wears masks for different reasons." Bruce's voice has softened a touch. "I didn't do what I did for the glory or even the credit. I did it because maybe, just maybe, people could see themselves in that mask."

Blake almost smiles in spite of it all. It's the sentiment that made the Batman...well, the Batman. Masks were almost a requirement living in Gotham, that was nothing new. It was what people _did_ with their deception that illustrated who they were on the inside. Some were just more flashy about it. Even Harleen seemed hesitant to let go of her past persona, as much as she renounced the Joker and was putting her life on the line to make up for both of their mistakes. Then Bane...

"Bane didn't tell me he was excommunicated." Blake mutters, smile fading and with impressive speed when he remembers he was going to have to try and work within the aftermath of a meeting that almost went south.

"There's probably a lot he didn't tell you. It'd be a little harder to look like the just party that way." Blake doesn't have it in him to be embarrassed when Bruce adds, with a hint of revulsion, "...you sure picked a _strange_ person to get involved with."

"A relevant person, you mean?" The detective responds coolly. Bruce just rolls his eyes.

"Come on. Don't insult my intelligence. The fact Bane didn't lay a hand on you, after you _tazed_ him, no less, told me plenty. You're interested in more than just intel."

"A cat burglar, _then_ your old martial arts teacher's daughter? Yeah, my track record has nothing on yours." Blake snorts. "Save it."

"My history doesn't change the fact you're making one hell of a risky decision." Is Bruce pissed off or worried? The man didn't do a very good job of categorizing his emotions. "I wasn't being dramatic when I said Bane was dangerous. A man who's been through what he has... _seen_ what he has and done what he's done...you're walking on a tightrope here."

That touches a nerve, one Blake definitely doesn't mind showing in his expression. A person lives through years of twisted abuse and isolation, goes years without family or even friends, and the only possible place they have to go is _down_? Who the hell thinks of others like that? Judging by the older man staring at him like he's both fearless _and_ twisted...Bruce did.

"Speaking of which...did you _have_ to throw his upbringing in his face like that?" It was the closest he could get to defending Bane's knee-jerk reaction -- love or hate the guy, it was a _despicable_ thing to say. "That was uncalled for."

"Look, I could feel sorry for Bane until the cows come home. He certainly has an upbringing that would put most Greek tragedies to shame. Unfortunately, he cracked my spine, threw me in a hole for months and trashed my city, so I'm a little biased." Bruce peers at him. "He kidnapped you, too, and tortured you. Yet you're _sleeping_ with him. Am I wrong in being concerned here?"

He couldn't lie. That'd sour anyone's opinion of a person. Even then...

"Trashed your city?" Blake squints back in the increasingly poor lighting. "That's a funny way of putting trying to clean up your mess."

"You act like I had made an easy decision all those years back. Change doesn't happen overnight." Christ, he sounds just like Gordon. "You need to handle delicate matters with a delicate hand, or all you're going to bring is...more of _this_."

"I'm sure it's just coincidence that the people who can afford to wait are the most patient." The detective can't help but bristle. Bruce was just a second away from calling _him_ a hothead, too. "When's the last time you ever remember going hungry? Whether or not you can actually afford a check-up at the doctor's?"

To his surprise this seems to shut up him up. It won't be for long, though. Not with the searching look in his eyes.

"Right. You told me you grew up at St. Swithins." Bruce murmurs. Blake nods briskly, though the sour quirk to his mouth doesn't leave.

"For the last chunk of my childhood, yeah. I was in a few other orphanages, too. Long enough to see what _other_ children were going through without mommy and daddy to keep them cushioned."

"Yes." The older man is looking up at the sky as he tugs on his coat, an old pain in his eyes. "Of course."

He still has respect for Bruce Wayne. That wasn't going to fully change, not after risking his neck over and over to get rid of the Joker and people like Ra's al Ghul (even if he just chose not to 'save' the latter). But there were holes in his foundation. Judgmental, myopic little holes that grew bigger every time they spoke. Blake can't help but think to what the Penguin said all the way back in that cushy little lounge.

' _Money can't buy everything, it seems._ '

"Anything else I should know before we do this?" Blake asks when Bruce looks like he still has more to say. It was getting warmer, despite the on-and-off rains. It feels like a lifetime since Gotham's had a good spring. His mind, as it has been for the past few days, starts to wander toward St. Swithin's and the humdrum of daily life he's been missing. He's thinking wistfully about Easter dinner and upcoming birthdays (Amir would be turning twelve soon) when Bruce's next works thrust him back into uncomfortable reality.

"Talia may be pregnant." He says, a hand over his eyes to shade them from the dipping sun as they wait for Alfred. "...with my child."

"Uh." Blake blinks, then blinks _again_. "I'm sorry. _What?_ "

"Don't tell Bane." Bruce's mouth is in a razor-thin line like he's already imagining the consequence. "It's something I'll have to look into later and break to him...preferably never, but."

Blake just stares and slowly shakes his head in disbelief. Tell him? He'd have a more productive time trying to eat his own hand. His most loathed enemy on an already _very_ long list of people bearing his only daughter's child...Blake couldn't make this shit up if he tried. Christ, if Bane found this out the rage he flew into at the warehouse would look downright pedestrian.

"You're...sure it's yours?" Blake asks. Bruce has the decency to look a little contrite.

"No. But we were careless that night, and she's over five months in, so putting the pieces together...the possibility is more than likely."

An ugly little kernel of spite grows in the back of his mind. He wonders if he should tell him. Bane had no problem throwing brutal curveballs in _his_ face, after all.

"But why are you telling _me?_ " He asks with another wondering shift of his head. "That's really...personal."

"In the event she tries to use it to drive a wedge between us." Bruce says, quickly, clearly not wanting to dwell on the topic longer than necessary. "We're only as prepared as the knowledge we have in our back pocket."

"You know, I didn't realize _why_ he hated you so much." Blake lifts his face when a roll of thunder carries overhead. "I mean, he disagreed with your methods. Your, uh, trust fund upbringing." He adds with a note of dark humor. "But...it seems a lot of it circled back to Ra's al Ghul."

"He's always loved his revenge." Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, a tic he was coming to associate with poorly-managed weariness. "Hell...I didn't even know he was the same Bane at first."

"Not even with the name?" It's an intentionally blunt question. Bane used to go by Behnam, but Blake never actually knew _when_ , exactly, he made the switch to his now-famous identity. There was still so much he didn't know about him. Every answer he got just gave him three more mysteries. Normally it was fascinating. _Exciting_ , even.

Now it just terrified him.

"He was...different back then." Bruce starts, haltingly, until Blake gives him a look to continue. "...I thought it was just a nickname. He wasn't nearly as talkative as he is now. Didn't wear that mask, often kept to himself. Hated any attention whatsoever. He would always keep to the shadows or the corner of the room like there was no other place for him to be. Once he tried to kill me, though over _what_ I have no idea. It was after my last meeting with Ra's."

Blake listens with a hefty grain of salt, even as the curiosity becomes almost unbearable.

"We had sparred together a few times before that, but he never said anything to me. At least, verbally. It was clear Bane hated me from day one. Every time we were put together in the ring he was practically feral. He barely listened to any of the trainers and completely ignored the rules they set down like every round would be his last. Third time we got into a fight we had to be split up. I didn't view it as personal because I could tell he'd been through Hell and back. His unusual behavior and his injuries...I'm sure you've seen them up close...made that all too clear."

"Do you know what caused it?" Blake hedges. "The scar on his spine...?"

"No." Bruce gives him a funny look. "Seems like that's another thing he hasn't shared with you."

The comment stings, more than he'd probably intended to. He tries to ignore the resentment in his chest as Bruce continues.

"It had been in January, if I remember correctly. Time pretty much lost meaning in the monastery, set in a remote village as it was, and it was easy to forget the weeks as they came and went. I was thinking of returning to Gotham at the time. I'd learned more during my months there than years spent studying on my own, but I missed my home. I still carry the League Of Shadows within me. I think I always will, even as I decided to go my own path and never look back."

Blake nods. Gotham's pull was a contradiction nobody could solve. Not even two detectives.

"It was blisteringly cold. Made Gotham look cozy." Blake almost laughs at that. "My things had been packed up and I was wandering throughout the caves, appreciating what I could. Bane cornered me just outside the main hall..." He pauses, and Blake can sense there's an entirely different story there he doesn't feel like sharing. "...it was the most difficult fight of my stay, hands down. I said before the previous times we were supposed to be sparring it always felt like he was going in with the intent to kill? This time he truly was."

It's an incomplete, yet fascinating picture slowly being painted into his head. Bane still under the tutelage of Ra's al Ghul. Younger, but not young. A maladjusted mystery in a secret part of the world instead of the grandiose phenomenon that coated thousands, perhaps millions, of screens these days. It's small wonder Bruce didn't recognize the man. He may as well have been an entirely different person. Blake himself still doesn't even know what Bane's face looks like. Not entirely. A part of him wants to ask about that, too, but it seems...invasive, somehow.

Not that he should _care_ when Bane seemed intent on misleading him (and everyone) half the time, anyway. That painful spark comes back, much hotter, and makes Blake hunch into his coat gloomily.

"Was that when he was excommunicated? The last straw, so to speak?"

"To be honest? I don't know. The other members found us, broke us up like usual, we went our separate ways. I left not long after and later clashed with Ra's al Ghul when he tried to destroy Gotham. I only learned he was excommunicated through Alfred, actually. He still won't tell me how he found that out." Bruce slowly shakes his head as he stares at the fog settling into the trees. "For the longest time I never knew why or _how_ a fighter better than Ra's had been under everyone's nose the whole time."

"And now?"

"Now I know where he came from." Empathy and disgust and realization mix strangely in his voice. "Even Ra's couldn't lay claim to a history like his."

Their eyes meet, briefly, and Blake can tell he's thinking what he's thinking. How could a chance encounter so simple, and so strange, have such unexpected consequences down the road? Evening is abrupt, as it always is, and the shadows starting to fall around them wind down the conversation with supernatural ease. Alfred pulls up a few yards away in a sleek black car, barely distinguishable against the growing night.

"Well, at least this meeting went better than I expected." Bruce says as he walks up. "I honestly didn't think there would be anything to salvage out of a peace treaty with the new League Of Shadows, but you proved me wrong."

"...Seriously?" Alfred gives Blake a stiff, but polite, wave from the side window. He returns it, though he's caught off-guard all over again. Bruce had seemed grudging, at best, the entire time they've been talking. He'd tased him _too_ , after all, and it was more than probable that moment contributed to 80% of the scorn in his voice whenever he addressed him.

"Yes. You can find out where Bane's keeping my nuclear reactor so I can disarm it." Bruce says as he steps inside and shuts the door. "I'd rather not turn you in to the Department when this is all finally over...so try to make a better choice than you did at the library."

The detective watches Alfred pull out down the overgrown dirt road and drive off with yet another weight on his shoulders. Yeah. Definitely harder than it looked.

Blake proceeds to stew in his own juices for days. As the League prepares for the final transition to the mountain hideout he does everything in his power to avoid Bane, which wasn't a wise decision based on logic...nor a hard decision when there was so much to do. When he's not sleeping he's running a hundred different errands, small and large, whenever and wherever he's needed. Driving, scouting, chopping wood, cleaning weapons, good old-fashioned wiretapping. Nothing like multitasking to make avoidance a breeze.

One of the few sources of peace he has for himself was an unexpected gift Harleen had given him to take back to the League's camp.

"Your Swithin's boys wrote you some letters." Blake had taken it with both hands, emotion swelling up inside him like a helium balloon at the surprise package. "Sorry I didn't give them to you sooner."

"Thank you." He'd whispered, staring wonderously at the colorful and poorly-folded clutter of lined paper and Post-It notes. "Shit. Thank you." Blake's smile had felt better than a million bucks, but it had soon faded after he'd shuffled through them a few times. "Huh. That's strange...did Finn write anything? Reilly told me he gave him my number, but..."

"Sorry, doll." Harleen looked rather morose and, surprisingly, so did Selina. "That's all of 'em. I talked to 'im, though. I don't think it's 'cause he's mad."

"What did he say?" Blake had begun, instantly, only to stop himself right in his tracks. "Wait...no. Don't. It's fine." She'd been confused, but he had just held the letters to his chest and thanked her all over again. The following days would turn the letters into his own personal anchor.

" _Hi, Blake. I hope you're doing okay. Your friends came over and told us that you're all right. Reilly knows you're okay, too, but he's worried you haven't called. I don't think you killed Foley. You always looked up to Batman, didn't you? Batman never killed. Even Bane exposed Gordon for lying about Dent and I didn't believe Batman did that, either. I know it sounds silly, but you're like the dark knight of St. Swithin's. I hope they find who's responsible so you can come home. I miss you so much. Best regards, Amir._ "

The letter had also contained a (slightly smudged) chalk portrait of him with a bat-shaped mask over his eyes.

Blake takes to bunking in Salim's tent, because even _looking_ at Bane was enough to coil him up like a wire ready to spring. The sniper is more than accommodating, though it's clear by how uncharacteristically tight-lipped he gets whenever Bane becomes the topic of conversation he knows there's something going on. Subtlety wasn't completely lost on him, though, and he doesn't pry. It's nice to spend a few spare hours playing cards with him and the others when they have time. Little sanity checks to keep them all from cracking.

" _this is weird, i never write letters except at school when the teacher wants us to 'build character'. texting is better because you dont have eraser shavings everywhere. anyway so Reilly found a couple that says they wanna adopt me and i dont know if i want to go because i like it here with all of u. their really nice but I dont know them, you know? i wish u were here. i really miss you. please come home soon. Tiya_ "

He doesn't have Bane's arms around his waist to soothe him to sleep, nor his sharp humor to wile away the hours when sleep refuses to come. When Blake curls on the floor of Salim's tent (or one of the spare cots when he got the chance) he finds himself slipping into memories of times that didn't exist to ease the furious throb of his heart. Fading from his tense existence in the thick of a distant Gotham forest and returning to that nameless city by the coast. Nothing on his mind but the smell of the ocean spray on a warm summer day and the feel of a pleasant stranger's hand in his own.

It should worry him these dreams feel more reliable than reality, but he already had enough to worry about.

" _Things are really weird over here. School keeps being locked down and everyone is really antsy at home. Jai and Emanuel keep fighting over little things. If you have another panic attack remember to drink lots of water and do those stretching exercises I told you about. They help you focus and take your stress away by stimulating blood flow. Sometimes I do them whenever I have to go to school and I'd rather sleep in. I keep telling Tiya to try them, but he never does. Love, Jay_ "

Barsad asks him how he's doing when they take their turn running patrol. Blake plays dumb and answers by telling him his limp isn't nearly as bad as it looked, earning a sour expression from the man that lasts the rest of the route.

" _I had a drem the boys home is made out of cake! come home soon, we are worried sick and I have new books to show you - Joel <3_

Bruce calls Blake in the middle of a run with Khalil and Anarosa to tell him an interesting finding that could be linked to Crane -- abnormally large purchases of ventilation fans and filters have been bought by various suppliers throughout the city, thanks to Lucius Fox from the Wayne Board. He'd been hesitant to talk overmuch with the mercenaries nearby, though they had taken the temporary collaboration well enough. After all, the truce was bearing fruit. An honest-to-god plan with results that could very well see this entire mess wrapping up.

...and a plan with results that could've easily not seen the light of day because of Bane.

Blake's carefully maintained physical and emotional distance over the days wasn't subtle. Bane caught on. While the masked man didn't outright avoid him, he didn't go out of his way to speak to him unless it was strictly work-related. Maybe he was still pissed off about being electrocuted like a wild animal. Maybe he was just busy. Blake was too angry to care. Their rare conversations lacked their usual banter. Glances at one another throughout the hubbub of daily work were perfunctory, at best. As chance as a breeze and about as detached.

The detective didn't like it, but he definitely liked Bane's bizarre and unpredictable lust to kill a whole lot _less_.

A League member named Sawan fucks up badly one day. Blake doesn't know them particularly well (all he knows is he used to be former soldier and is part of the regular driving crew), but that doesn't make the sight of them on the ground being throttled any less shocking. When he returns to the camp after a drive near the border he finds dozens of mercenaries standing in the usual sparring semi-circle. Only it's not sparring, he finds out when he jogs over and peers over their shoulders to get a better look. It's torment.

There's no attentive ease or competitive spirit in the air. Sawan is allowed to defend himself, apparently, because he fights back without any surrounding protest, but he might as well have been a songbird in a snowstorm for the effect he has on his leader.

One punch, two, then he's down. Like inspecting an insect Bane crouches above him, head tilted as Sawan coughs out explanations and apologies. After listening for an almost nauseating amount of time he folds an arm on one knee for balance and reaches down the other to grip the man's throat. The mercenary writhes ineffectually in his grasp, turning a dark red in almost no time at all, and Blake is sick to his stomach that Bane's turning his death into some sort of _spectacle_. He looks between all the others standing, trying to catch their gaze, figure out what the hell is going on, but everyone watches as silently as if they were at a funeral procession.

When it seems he's about to breathe his last, gasping now barely a croak, Bane...lets go. Folds his other arm on the other knee and watches passively as the mercenary regains his breath one cough at a time. Once he's calmed down, enough that the horrible pallor from his skin has faded, Bane reaches down and starts to strangle him again. From the exhausted resignation he catches on Sawan's face...it's less torture and something more akin to a standard punishment.

Bane seems to view it all as little more than a chore, not so much as flinching at the soldier snuffling and wheezing piteously in the dirt whenever he lets go. Blake doesn't get the use of beating the hell out of someone when they needed to be functional. His comprehension goes for another spin when, eventually, after what seems like _forever_ , Bane takes Sawan by the arm and helps him to his feet. One-by-one everyone turns away from the surreal scene and gets back to their duties. The masked man tells Sawan to get back to work, then brushes past Blake like he isn't even there.

There was a lot he still didn't understand about the League. He wondered if he ever would.

"He's killed his men before." Blake says to Barsad later that night when everyone is cooking or switching posts. "Bane strangled Omar back in the sewers right in front of me. What the hell was the point of that?"

"Unlike Omar, Sawan's mistake was borne of love. Not cowardice. He made a poor, yet very consequential, lapse in judgement the evening prior." Barsad explains over a bowl of stew. "He and two others had been maintaining watch at the southeastern border. One was accosted by patrol guards as they attempted to return back to camp. It would have been wiser to leave the captured party and return, but Sawan had fought back in an attempted rescue. One guard died. The other was badly injured. It was a messy situation. It came very close to exposing our operation out here, had they been followed."

"But why shouldn't he have his partner's back?" Blake argues heatedly. "What good is a team that doesn't look out for each other?"

"Any other time I would have agreed with you. Our situation, however, is tenuous. The League knows to sacrifice the few for the needs of the many. He looked out for his brother-in-arms...but he also risked the _lives_ of his brothers-in-arms in doing so. We all know the stakes going in." Barsad's blue eyes seem, somehow, cold and humane. "Salim had gone through something similar when he set _you_ free." Blake's stomach drops at the idea of the friendly sniper getting tormented for doing the right thing. Salim didn't even seem to hold the faintest grudge -- he always spoke of Bane in glowing tones and, aside from that surprising little moment when he was still a hostage, never failed to do what he was told.

"Didn't you do something similar at the Iceberg Lounge?" Barsad asks, patient as a saint. "Putting on a demonstration for the benefit of all."

"No, that was different." Blake shakes his head. "I didn't drag that shit out. I didn't torture the guy. He also didn't work _under_ me."

"It's as psychological as it is physical. A hallmark Bane has earned personally." Barsad lowers his voice, imperceptibly, when Bane steps into the camp as if summoned. They both stare over their food, over the heat shimmers spotting the air, as he speaks with a few of the men and women by the fire. They, in turn, watch him with respect and fear and love on their faces. Even Sawan, with a ring of bruises around his neck as dark as a tattoo.

"You have a saying on this very concept." The second-in-command talks slowly and quietly in-between bites. "'Familiarity breeds contempt', yes? We as human beings have no choice but to take every breath for granted. This method you saw...it helps us become reacquainted all over again with the gift of life. Both for us and how it affects others, breathing where we can't see, the same air we all share."

"How does trauma help people do better in the future?" Blake asks as he scrapes the last bite from the bottom of his bowl.

"I'm sure your own could answer that for you better than I could." Barsad says as he reaches into the pot for another helping.

Blake can't avoid Bane forever. He finds him later in one of the overnight tents once he's done checking their newest shipment of machine tools from Penguin's crew. There are only a few vehicles in the clearing now, as everything is packed up and well on its way to Gotham's borders -- nearly three hundred mercenaries would be ready to leave once Barbara, Selina and Barsad got back to them with their update. The masked man doesn't say a word when Blake steps inside, engrossed in his work on the far end with his back to the entrance.

There isn't much left inside. A spare stool, some folded blankets and a weapons case. That old lantern _clinks_ and flickers unheeded by his arm on the simple pull-out desk. It's running low on fuel. Blake can smell tea lingering in the air. Any other time he would've asked for a cup. Maybe asked Bane to take a few minutes from his workaholic nature and sit with him outside. The loss of a potentially good moment hurts all the harder.

Bane is dressed casual in his black top and fatigues, leaning over something he can't see. One good look at him, even after days of distance, and Blake already wants to fly into a rage. He wants to show Bane _just_ how it feels to have someone he's counting on throw all care to the wind and let some fucking temper tantrum take over. He's not overly familiar with this bitterness, not to this degree and not for this _long_ , and it starts to spike through him in a rush that becomes harder to control with every passing second.

"...Hey." He starts. The casual greeting doesn't sit right in his mouth. Like biting into something hard when expecting something soft.

"Is every box accounted for?" Is the smooth, yet tired, response. No hand on his cheek. No lingering touches under the cover of the tent. Not even a glance his way. "Of fair quality?"

"Yeah. We looked over everything individually. Penguin even signed each box himself. Anything else need to be done before we call it a day?" Blake asks as calmly as he can while his stomach twists into knots. "Besides the obvious."

"It seems you and I..." Bane mutters, distracted, clipping shut a small book and stuffing it into the pocket of his coat draped over a corner of the desk. "...have a different definition of obvious."

"Now's not a good time to get enigmatic, Bane." The detective growls.

"...Nor the time to get morally superior, I should say." Bane's shadow twitches against the far wall as the lantern flickers fitfully, as if sensing the terse mood. A soft drumming surrounds them as a light shower starts up outside. Blake grinds his teeth (probably audibly if the pain in his jaw is any indication) and sifts through the thousand and one things he _wants_ to say for the thing he _needs_ to say. Unfortunately, they all look exactly the same.

"What's the plan, then?" He asks, tightly, when Bane threatens to sink into his distant silence routine.

"...According to Bruce Talia has been rather guarded as to where she has been staying or what she's been doing. Otherwise I wouldn't be here right now." Bane murmurs, back to clinical in a breath. "He does, however, still have her contact information. We will have to exercise caution for new opposition. I doubt there are many defectors from the League left, considering the ones I didn't kill had been blown up. With Crane on her side...she may have found another resource to replace them. Gotham residents none the wiser, perhaps."

"Sounds like something Ra's would've done." The implication isn't lost on him.

"Like father, like daughter..." Bane's voice darkens in less than a beat. "...I suppose the satisfying answer would be."

"Well. If this talk with Pamela goes well we might have a secret weapon against _her_ secret weapon." Blake watches with instinctive wariness the rigid line moving up his back. "It's not like anyone in the city is doing anything beyond quarantining the victims like livestock."

"Yes...Harleen had been rather conservative on those details with me. I hope you two find more answers and soon, because Crane's toxin could see entire populations dead or incapacitated by their own hands." A dry _snort_. "What a helpful and unpredictable new friend you have."

"Yeah, well." Blake mutters. "She's not the only one."

It's a response much simpler than the heat scouring through his chest and making every breath burn. He'd wanted to catch him off-guard. Sock him right in the eye the moment he turned around, petty and dramatic exactly like _he'd_ been when they all needed it least before giving him the rant that's been brewing in his head for days. Bane, however, is too clever. A mere second's probing over his shoulder at his tone, the first he's looked at him this entire time, and a warning note enters his voice.

"...You don't want to fight me, John."

Blake's hands clench white-knuckle tight.

"Maybe I _do_."

It's a bad idea. His brain is telling him it's a bad idea and his gut is telling him it's a bad idea and their entire _history_ together is telling him it's a bad idea, but he doesn't fucking care. Bane could've ripped up all his hard work because of a conniption fit. Of _all_ things! Blake thought he had been on the verge of a breakthrough. Guiding him away from that horrible wrath and urging out the kind, canny, weary soul Bane wouldn't allow to fully shine because he honestly didn't think it was what the world needed.

He's tired of being let down. All he wants to do is lash out at a life that's been failing him, one exhausting and demoralizing effort at a time, and at the moment the man before him couldn't be a better personification. Bane's form shifts like a shadow in the water. He turns from the desk and lowers his chin to better look down at him, tense and at-the-ready in one fluid movement.

"John..." He repeats, carefully. "This is your last warning."

Blake swings.

" _Fuck you!_ "

Bane raises his arm in a block and pushes him back with his other hand with enough strength to make him stumble. Blake hits the balls of his feet and lunges forward again. Bane repeats the motion. He doesn't strike back, even though it would be all too easy. Blake wants to shove him, knock him down, _something_ , but he'd have better luck trying to push over a tree and they both know it.

"You don't get to say that after what you did-" Blake yells, not giving a damn about the mercenaries probably listening in outside. "That isn't fair! I needed someone to count on after the mess my life has collapsed into-" He swings again. "-and you're too fucking obsessed with your-" He misses, this time, but barely. "-grudge and Talia and Bruce and Ra's and who knows what _else_ in that fucked-up head of yours-"

"John." Bane says, maddeningly calm as he weaves back and away from his blows in the cramped space. "This solves nothing. You got what you wanted."

"Barely!" Blake shoves aside the lone stool to better get to him. " _Barely!_ If I hadn't stopped you when I did...!"

"John, _enough-_ "

Anger only makes his attacks sloppy. Bane was at his best when people were at their worst. This is the same man who survived one of the most savage prisons on the planet, with the most savage people. Just like when they were sparring, Blake knows he has to take a leaf out of his opponent's book if he's going to get anywhere beyond his limited scope. So he ignores his brain and his gut for a second time and, just like he did all those weeks back, goes for the low blow.

"Now she's fucking pregnant with Bruce Wayne's _child_. You're really shit for planning, aren't you?"

Bane pauses. It's the split-second Blake needs to connect his fist with his face. The _crack_ resounds sharply through the thin walls -- his knuckle splits open when it catches briefly on the steel tangle, spotting a dark pattern onto the tent backing. The man stumbles, just one step, and a hand automatically rises up to check the wires. Another hand rises and he's fumbling with them, pushing them back when they threaten to leak. Then his voice drops to a hoarse timber he can barely hear.

"... _What?_ "

It doesn't matter he's going off new knowledge Bruce had yet to confirm himself. Blake's next words are the finger in the wound, probing to hurt and make the bastard squirm.

"Oh, _yes!_ " He says in a parody of Bane's affected mannerisms. "You're going to be a grandpa. Now you'll have a _grandkid_ to completely fuck up, too. What should I bring to the baby shower? A tiny _bomb_?"

"You...you lie." Bane's stunned gaze wanders the tent in a growing moment of horror, then focuses sharply on him. "She despises Bruce. She would...she would never..."

Blake swings again and the masked man _snatches_ his fist this time, as easily as he would catch a ball mid-air, and snarls in his face.

"You _lie!_ "

Blood singing with adrenaline Blake rears back and headbutts him, right where the mask separates and marks the perfect spot. Bane's head snaps back. It's a very brief victory. He doesn't return the favor, not even with the protection his mask could offer, but he _does_ send a responding fist right into his stomach and makes him temporarily forget how to breathe. Through the breathless gasp Blake lashes out a kick and gets him in the shin, then the stomach. Something shatters when they both end up on the ground.

Somewhere in-between their traded blows and wrestling for dominance the small table has fallen over and cracked the desk lantern, scattering chunks of glass onto the floor. His impulsive reaction has consequences -- the man may match him in quickness, but he's much heavier and _much_ worse in close quarters. The moment Bane has him beneath him is the moment Blake's lost the fight, but that doesn't stop him from trying to get in every last painful contact he can before he's inevitably knocked out cold.

Bane grunts sharply when Blake digs a brutal knee into his ribcage. At first he's surprised -- he's got analgesic swimming in that mask, it should numb him -- then he remembers he'd _cracked_ said ribs a while back. He really should feel regret at this point, at _some_ point, but fury is like poison in his veins. Gripping the man's shirt for leverage he hits that spot _again_ and makes Bane all but double over in pain.

Whatever hesitation he might have been feeling vanishes like a light. With the ferocity of a sledgehammer Blake gets a swift blow to the gut...then another, then _another_ that damn near blacks him out.

The top of the tent spins dizzily above his head. Blake's consumed with the sudden, helpless pitch to throw up. As he struggles to keep whatever's in his stomach down he realizes, dimly, he can't move -- Bane has taken advantage of his stunned state to pin him to the floor. The sound of footsteps outside approach with alarming speed over the crisp grass. Bane turns and snaps at someone standing outside the half-open tent flap.

" _Leave us!_ "

They vanish as quickly as they came. Even though Blake's next words have _agony_ and not nearly enough air to work up through, they still somehow make it into the tent.

"She's been... _pregnant_ this entire time and you didn't even _know._ " He coughs spitefully around his convulsing stomach. "How do you know she even gives a shit about you at this point? She's gone against..." Then he starts hacking, uncontrollably, body desperately trying to remind him he's in no position to talk.

" _John_..." The massive hands clamped around his wrists are shivering with wrath. "I'm warning you..."

"...gone against everything you stand for and you _still_ want to take her in alive, protect her like she's your precious little girl and not a batshit-"

 _Crack._ Blake blinks, staring at the side of the tent instead of the ceiling and not knowing why for a good few seconds. Bane has backhanded him.

"One senseless mistake after another." He snarls, hand quivering in the air inches above his head. "If you are trying to rile me then you are doing a _very_ good job."

"Doesn't take much with _you._ " Blake all but spits -- then he does, on the floor, when he feels blood trickle in a hot stream from his nose. "Just being faced with the truth always seems to be enough to make you go completely feral-"

"I am not _feral!_ "

"Is that why I had to stick you with a goddamn taser to make you stop?!"

"You understand nothing about Ra's. About the League, about Talia and I!" Bane has let go of his wrists fully now, though he still looms above him, a physical warning not to move. "You parrot Bruce so _well_. What lies has he spun to his most adoring _fan?_ "

"It's not like you went out of your way to share anything with me! The hell am I supposed to do except come to my own conclusions?!"

"You could never truly understand the depths of what we survived. What we went through." The mask is almost a living creature, hissing and spitting, every word like a strike against a match box. "Every day we endured...the Hell we faced...I have never been _anything_ without Talia. I would have died without her. She is everything to me! Yet you come in here with these base taunts, this mockery-"

"Then why would you seek me out?" Blake yells up at him, shrill with hurt. "That's not fair, you bastard! It's not fair you would just resign yourself to this...this complete _psychosis_ and string me along like we could share a life together someday!"

" _You_ wanted that, not me!" Bane slices his arm to one side as if to knock the sentiment away. "I told you it's not possible. Not with my lifestyle, not with my goals. You knew what you were getting into and for you to feign naiveté _now_ , of all times!"

"You want it just as much as I do!" Blake cries back and, _fuck_ , he's two seconds away from choking up. He doesn't know if it's the anger or the pain or the harrowing fear that everything could have gone wrong, _again_. Someone he thought he could trust is slipping through his hands like grains of sand. No, someone he more than trusts. Who's more than he can even pin down in hours, days or years. Bane rises to his feet, one hand gripping his heaving side.

"I can't _have_ that kind of life-" He stresses, again, _horribly_ , and Blake interrupts him because he can't bear to hear that resignation any longer.

"You keep saying 'can't' when it's 'won't'. Because you think _Talia_ is the beginning and ending of your entire world! You're not in the pit anymore, you don't need her, you have _me-_ "

"Don't you dare bring that up again. Don't you _dare_. You lambast me for living a life of war, yet here you are! Clinging to a city that has all but thrown you away, returning to it like a wretched lover. You yearn for your family, to the point of affecting even your ability to sleep at night, yet you all but _flee_ from them at a moment's notice!"

It's like a knife through his chest. The sudden silence rings in his ears as he tries to keep up his momentum.

"That's...that's bullshit." Blake stammers, the ground turning unsteady beneath him. "I'm trying to keep my family safe by keeping the city safe. That's what I've _been_ doing all this time. I'm always thinking about them! I do this for _them._ "

Bane suddenly lunges down, grabs him by the front of his jacket and yanks him up and _close_. Blake prepares for more violence, grips his wrists with both hands and digs his heels desperately into the ground, but there's nothing left to fight. Nothing but the hot sting of Bane's breath a centimeter from his face.

"You sound _unsure_ , John. Please don't hesitate on my account." His eyes are hooded, languidly exploring his face in little flicking motions, but it's a different kind of intimacy. The kind that tells him there's not a damn thing he can hide. "Do you fight so hard because you fear for the safety of yours...or because you have known no other way to be after the loss of so many you loved? Are you so different from me? Is this _hypocrisy_ I smell?"

He shakes him, a hard _jerk_. Blake's heart lurches painfully in his chest.

" _Answer me._ "

Three decades of his life come to a head. Drawn out of him like blood through a needletip. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

Reilly begging him to get in touch over the phone. Old and tired and overworked and, _still_ , believing in others when they couldn't even muster up a single positive thought about themselves. Finn withdrawing from everyone, cold as he had to be after years in a tiny trailer home that left him a distant drifter when he should've just been a kid. Sasha, the now-single mother working doggedly through the hand life dealt her. Joel, happier than he's ever been after his father was pushed out of his life. Amir and his art. Barbara. Gordon. Jai, Emanuel, Christopher, Tiya, Jay, Jamal-

_-his mother is warming him a cup of soup over the stove in her blue bathrobe._

_He should've been home an hour ago._

_Robin lingers in the doorway and wipes at his running nose. The door creaks when he shuts it, as if trying to rub his tardiness in his face, and the sun has already vanished behind the trees to leave blue in its wake. The walk from the foyer to the hallway to the kitchen isn't long enough to come up with an excuse. He tries, anyway, and it's jumbled and stuttery from the cold._

_He doesn't like when her mouth twists like that. The worried lines as deep as if they had been drawn in pencil. She doesn't berate him, or give him a punishment, or call down Dad. She mops the excess snow from his hair and tells him to eat._

Warm memories scatter from him like dead leaves on the breeze in the face of Bane's sallow, furious face.

"It...it doesn't make it _right._ " The weariness and pain is starting to make his head swim. "You can't go on like this, Bane."

"On like what?" He asks, softly. "What is so obvious to you?"

"I've bent over backwards for you. For this, for her." He licks at the blood welling up in the corner of his mouth. "Not anymore. You're on your goddamn own. Go fucking crazy if you want."

Bane stares at him so wild-eyed Blake's afraid for a very cold second he's going to pick up where the fight left off. Then he just...chuckles. A throaty sneer completely devoid of humor.

"...You have bled dry your good faith. Then you rant to _me_ about trust." His fist twists in Blake's shirt, a few taut strands away from tearing the material outright. "It seems I've confused your folly for bravery. Your impulsivity for _wit_. I see now, from this vantage point, you are little more than a softhearted fool who thinks everyone can be saved."

His pupils are blown wide, a fathomless black that bores into him without mercy. Out of the corner of his eye he can just make out the growing bruises he's left on the man's face, flushed an ugly red and threatening to turn a more familiar shade of blue over the following days. Guilt burns with a wildfire-like intensity at the pain he's caused. Not just physical...but in every sense of the word. He's finally regretting stepping into the tent, opening his goddamn _mouth_ , but there's nothing left to do but let the ramifications of his decisions wash over him.

"You have set your little plan in motion." Bane says. "Do us all a favor, John Blake, and see it through to the end."

Then he _shoves_ him away and watches coldly when Blake lands all his weight on his weak leg and hits the ground again.

"We have work to do."

Bane turns and pauses in the entrance, briefly, a hand instinctively rising up to his side again. Then he snatches his coat and storms out. By the time Blake is on his feet and outside he's long gone.

The few mercenaries still outside are stone-faced and staring fixedly away from the tent, though it couldn't be any more clear they heard everything than if they'd literally constructed a neon sign calling him a douchebag. Only Barsad looks at him. His shoulders are rigid, like he's been ready to spring into action at a moment's notice, and the look in his eyes is much worse.

"Blake..." He starts to say as he gets to his feet from where he's been crouching near Bane's tent.

"Fuck _off._ "

Blake finds himself somewhere far away from the camp, stumbling and clutching his aching stomach like a drunk, where all he has to look at is the graying sky. It's starting to sprinkle, but it's barely enough to break through the blood drying on his face. He scrubs at his nose as best he can with his sleeve and presses the split knuckle to his mouth to suck at the blood still welling there.

As faint as the rustle of the trees a voice whispers.

" _Oh, dear. You're making a mess of things...aren't you?_ "

"You can fuck off, too." He hisses around the bruised skin, ignoring as best he can the heat pricking the corners of his eyes. No matter how hard he clutches his ears Crane's mollifying whisper surrounds him. A crack in the glass that spreads into spider's legs. "Leave me alone."

" _You don't have to deal with this anymore, Blake. There's a happy world just waiting for you...if you'd only let it in._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another peek into the writing process:
> 
> *takes a shower or does dishes or makes a meal*
> 
> *zones out and starts writing entire chapters in my head*
> 
> *rushes to the computer before I forget*


	55. What You Want, What You Need

Barsad told her exactly how to play up her role as the 'well-meaning yet naive ingénue' and it worked. Nearly everyone at the Department was glad to see her, more than usual, and she didn't even have to sneak around as she planted Bruce Wayne's tiny cameras in various locations between conversations. They weren't just high-tech. They would dissolve over three days or less, depending on outside conditions, and take any evidence that could have lingered with them.

Everything went peachy. As she hoped it would.

Barbara would visit here from time-to-time, as much as she could juggling college and work, though it was more to keep her grandfather company than anything. She wasn't exactly fond of many of the recruits _or_ management. That included Foley, who had always been pleasant to her (even doting) and always trying to get on her good side for reasons that eluded her. She'd always viewed him as little more than a blowhard in a long line of people trying to one-up her grandfather.

Then he was murdered by a friend. A friend he tried to _kill_. Her wildest dreams could have never reached a conclusion like this...and she'd had more than a few nightmares these days.

"Barbara. It's been too long. You got your Ph.D at twenty yet?"

"You hear about Old Gotham? Crazy shit. People out here losin' their goddamn minds..."

"How are you? It must be tough, what with your grandfather..."

' _This isn't the first time my grandfather has had trouble in the line of duty. It's nothing out of the ordinary._ ' Bare thoughts pass behind her glowing smiles and sympathetic nods. ' _Unless you consider working with the recently disappeared Batman out of the ordinary._ '

Working for Bruce Wayne was humbling. At best. Her Batgirl persona, for all that she poured hundreds of hours into training and preparation, seems more and more a charade. Like a kid playing dress-up in their parent's closet. Could she ever amount to what he's done for the city? What he _hasn't_ done according to Bane and Blake? There was so much to wrap her mind around and, as she always did, she approaches her obligations one polished effort at a time.

Selina commends her over the phone when she's finished. Barbara was no slouch at reading people and it was clear from the beginning she didn't hand these out easily. It feels good to do her part. When she walks out of the Department, head held high, it was hard not to feel a little giddy at a job (however much illegal and dangerous) well done.

Then her grandfather shows up.

Gordon was being allowed a little freedom in light of his uncertain sentencing. It should be good news, but she didn't remember ever seeing him so thin. So wispy, like he's made out of cobwebs, ready to float away at the nearest stiff breeze and leave her all alone. When they meet face-to-face Grandpa holds onto her like _she'll_ disappear if he lets go. Considering what she was involved with...yes. She could disappear, with him none the wiser, and become another Gotham mystery for him to solve.

"Barbara." He tries to smile, but it doesn't stick. His beard is overgrown and he hasn't trimmed his hair in what seems like months. "Oh, you look exhausted. Tell me you've at least taken one day off from your exams? The city will still hold together if you get an A-."

' _I met Bane a few days ago and he implied I have a babyface. I found out Blake has been working with him the entire time. I'm Batgirl._ ' She thinks as she tries not to cry at the sight of him. ' _I'm trying to make you proud, Grandpa, but for once in my life I really don't know what I'm doing._ '

"I can handle a Gotham lockdown. Just tell me about you." She looks him over with a critical eye. "You're thinner."

"I'm just getting old, Barbara." They embrace, firmly, and linger. He smells like dust. "That's all. Now let's catch up before I get dragged off again."

Barbara is working up another lie for her benefit, just like with everyone else, but he doesn't press. Not even a little. Even though he should. Goodness, by all rights he should be prying and poking just like he _always_ did when faced with a mystery. The mystery of Gotham's lifetime, even! But he doesn't. Instead he just brushes a curl behind her ear like he always has ever since she was a little girl.

So much for the day being peachy keen.

"Grandpa..." Barbara interrupts as he's talking about something he saw on the news. He blinks curiously at her. "I...I have something to tell you."

 --

" _The missing nuclear physicist, Leonid Pavel, has just returned to his home country. This was after being discovered just three weeks ago outside of Moscow with little more than the clothes on his back. Much to the surprise of doctors he was neither malnourished nor displaying more traditional signs of mistreatment after his disappearance, then alleged kidnapping, ten months back. He returned to his wife, daughter and newborn child."_

A short clip of a middle-aged man with weathered skin and clothes that would be both comfortable in a business meeting and a personal study. He looks tired, overworked, but he greets everyone politely and shakes every hand extended to him.

_"He has since made his first public appearance since his Metropolis presentation a year ago. Dr. Pavel will be traveling around the world for what he says is his newest breakthrough in clean energy._ "

The back-and-forth flash of modern news graphics. The camera begins a sweeping pan over a thick audience dressed lightly for the incoming season.   

" _I imagine many of you want to hear about what happened to me. I would rather talk about the future. I've...changed over the time I was away. Gained a new perspective that I wouldn't have thought possible._ " Pavel's voice is soft, even as it booms over the crowd. " _I propose a new clean energy project. One that everyone will reap the benefits from this time around. One that could even last forever._ "

Blake is watching the news unfold on his phone when Harleen shows up. He's yet to hear from Barbara and Bane has already set off to meet with Bruce. It was do-or-die at this point. His brain is telling them everyone has strengths that are being used to the fullest of their ability and Gotham couldn't have a better team fighting for it. His gut is telling him stressing out won't fix a damn thing. Even their rare harmony didn't keep waiting from being the hardest part.

"We're going on another journey together!" She crows as she flings her arms around him. "It's been too long!"

"...Yeah." Blake pulls away. "Let's hope it doesn't _take_ too long."

He's in a very poor mood. Waiting was hard enough without having the aftermath of a fight hanging over his head like a raincloud. His throat also felt like fucking paper and he knew it had to do with the side-effects of Crane's damned toxin. Harleen, unfortunately for him, was one of the last people on earth to take a hint.

"Yikes!" She whistles when she gets a better look at him. "What happened to your _face?_ "

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Talking about your feelings is good for-"

" _Drop it._ "

The Plant Factory has been abandoned for a while because Gotham could hardly figure out its eco-budget, much less its skyrocketing crime rates. It was one of just a few places he didn't know much about, admittedly, because it had been built when he was still a kid for an initiative that hardly lasted more than a year. He found out Gotham's previous mayor had wanted to cut into the smog that caused so many health problems, with an additional plan to cover a third of the city in forest. It was a pipe dream from the word 'go'.

It was ambitious, to be sure, and he can still see some of that ambition in the building's style when they approach. Blake couldn't name the time period it was based off of, but the swooping curves didn't mesh at all with the towering angles he was used to (or, as Amir once told him during a rather humbling moment, 'Gotham's promising yet depressing dance with art deco'). Beautiful once upon a time, the Plant Factory's age shows in its dusted windows and dried-out courtyard.

"How do you know she'll be here?" The only green he can see are half-open buds peering through the shrubbery that wrap around the front fence. It was still more than he usually saw.

"You get to know a person well enough..." Harleen begins mysteriously. Blake is _not_ in the mood.

"Well, do me a favor and clue me in. We're still kind of flying by the seat of our pants here."

The air is strangely clear. Gotham was regularly submerged in a dense layer of smog. In fact, one of the surest ways of telling a Gothamite from anybody else was how they breathed -- the line between smoker and non-smoker was a pretty tenuous one and something most visitors couldn't parse out. Here the skyline is more visible than it has any right being. There aren't even _that_ many trees. At least, nothing like the forest he'd been inhabiting with the League.

"I first met Pamela at Toxic Acres, y'know." Harleen chatters as she clambers over the fence. It's covered in thorns, though it's nothing his gloves can't handle. "Only reason the air there ain't even worse is 'cause of her. She was tryin' to revive the plant life and return it to the glory days after the city got bored of dumping their waste all over the fields. Or somethin'. I was kind of high that night."

"Why'd she leave?" He double-checks to make sure no thorns are caught on his clothes before following. "It seemed like her own personal project."

"We all moved in. It was one of the few places we could go that wasn't immediately taken over or turned into Curfew Hell, so it's not like we had a lot of options. So, where'd you get those shiners?" She starts scanning him from head-to-toe again. "You didn't have those last time."

"It's nothing." He tugs up his scarf and walks a little faster. She keeps pace easily.

"Don't look like nothin'. You're wound up tighter than my hair."

"Maybe it's because we're heading into uncharted territory again and last time that happened we both went batshit insane and ended up in different neighborhoods."

"Come on, Sherlock. You're not the type to get miffed over _that_."

"What the hell are you getting at, Harleen?"

"Bane give those to you?"

Blake stops dead in his tracks and whirls on her.

"For _fuck's_ sake! I don't care if you used to be the head of the most famous goddamn mental health clinic on the planet. I'm _not_ interested in whatever chummy psychologist routine you have planned because you already went against a basic request to keep my family updated and instead brought along the seventh wheel in this shitshow."

"She wanted to see you. Kept askin' me." Harleen mutters, looking down at her twisting hands. "It worked out for the best, didn't it?"

"We'll find out, won't we?" Her face all but crumples at his harsh tone. "I'm having a hard time counting on a _lot_ of people lately."

They're almost there. He's prepared to stomp all the way in without her and try to convince Pamela himself. The front doors are locked, but Harleen (a lot less talkative now) simply beckons him around the building and picks the lock in the back door.

He's been watching and rewinding that evening in his head non-stop. Clinging to his anger instead of giving into the miserable, shitty guilt. It didn't even make sense. What the hell does he have to feel guilty for? A few solid punches was the least he could've done after that stunt Bane pulled. That fucking stubborn, violent, _petty_ man. Blake had looked past his brutally severe code for the League, his devotion to his frightening daughter. Keeping him locked up in the storm drains, even! But that...

He should've finally called it _quits_. Then and there. Walked out of the forest and out of his life.

What was he even thinking getting involved with a man like Bane? Even if he were an expert in romantic relationships (of which he most assuredly was _not_ ), it wouldn't have done him jack squat dealing with a man who was as mysterious as he was dangerous. No, Blake had allowed himself to get swept off his feet with someone almost larger-than-life when he knew, better than almost _anyone_ , the function of an image. He'd been so impressed with his tactical expertise, his incredible fighting skill, his reputation. Before he knew it he got a front-row seat to the fanatical horseshit beneath it all.

Blake had always kept on a mask to seem more agreeable, less angry, more of those and less of this and just enough of that. He knew firsthand. He knew _better_.

Then he didn't. Now Bane was just another check on the overflowing list of 'Things That Are His Goddamn Fault'.

"Don't touch anything, okay?"

The cloying scent of fertilizer that floods through the open door temporarily shakes him from his sour thoughts. Where the outside of the building had been graying and practically falling apart, the interior was another story entirely. It's so lush he can feel the difference prickling what little bare skin he has -- plants cover what seem to be every last inch of floor, wall and _ceiling_ , ivy vines and trees in old clay pots and...roses? Yes, actual _bushels_ of roses. The last time he saw so many was at the funeral of Reilly's mother, Ethel.

They'd been pink rather than white because they were her favorite color. Reilly and Blake had become close at that point in his life and, although he'd only met Ethel twice before she passed, he'd grown attached to her. She'd reminded him of his grandmother -- soft-spoken and motherly, but not without bite. Teenage Blake had marveled at the fanciful display created in her memory, so much different from the traditional ceremonies he'd grown up with. The memory isn't a warm one and he gives himself a shake.

"Thank god I don't have allergies." He mutters, resisting the surprisingly strong urge to reach out and touch them. They look like they're made out of silk. A few bees hover lazily in and out of the bush and he thinks he can hear the twitter of birds further in the room. It's almost uncomfortably warm, despite the cleaner air and relaxing rustle of plant life. Tugging on his jacket collar he scans the room and spots a water fountain. He tries to swallow past the sticky dryness that's been in his throat for what seems like forever, but it looks so _cool_...

"Same here." Harleen replies, dipping forward to sniff a flower, only to remember belatedly she has a mask on. "Death by sneezin' sounds funny on paper, but I'll pass. ...Where you goin'?"

His legs move of their own accord and before he knows it he's yanking down his scarf and mask to lean into the fountain and spool handfuls into his mouth. It's stale and there are leaves on the bottom, but at the moment it's the best thing he's ever _tasted_. He doesn't stop until he can finally think again.

"Woah, that's..." Harleen goggles at him with a crinkle to her nose. "Uh."

"Sorry." He wipes the back of his mouth, trying to control the tremors running up and down his body. "Just...thirsty."

"Thirsty's one thing, but that's probably filled with bird shit." She squints. "You're _really_ off today."

God, she was probably right. He tries not to look _too_ deeply at the bottom, even though he finds the probability of drinking literally shitty water much less eerie than what spurred him to do so. The uncontrollable thirst, the whispers in the back of his mind...this wasn't looking good. He suddenly feels afraid as he stares down at his wobbling reflection in the warm greenhouse light. How many times did someone have to be exposed to Crane's toxin before they started truly going crazy?

"Uh, Sherlock...?"

"Just...give me a second, okay? Christ."

"No, it's not that."

Something tickles his leg. He kicks at it, irritably, and hits something solid.

"What the-"

Blake looks down. A tree root, shaped in a grotesque imitation of a human hand, is wrapped firmly around his ankle.

"Holy-" He takes in the world's longest and most unsuccessful breath. " _-shit_."

"No, wait, don't-"

He yanks away and takes a horrifying step back, only to trip and fall on his ass...or he _would_ if he didn't instead collapse into a cluster of roots that wasn't there before. ...Wasn't _there_ before?! They're sluggish, yet strong, wrapping around him like a bed of snakes before his mind can figure out whether it wants to panic or be fascinated. He spends a good three seconds just staring. Then he starts thrashing.

"Ah, ah-" Harleen is looking remarkably calm with fucking roots growing around her _ankles_. "Don't hurt it. That'll just make her angry."

"The hell are you talking about?!"

"Just _relax_ , Sherlock!"

Relaxing is the furthest thing from his mind. Was this some sort of weird revenge plan? It would certainly be more original than what Foley tried to do to him, but he wasn't feeling charitable about brownie points right now.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me she could do...whatever this is?!" Blake snaps as he twists from side-to-side.

"I didn't know! I've seen her grow 'em big, but nothin' like this..." Now she's starting to look a little nervous, like it just clicked that moving tree roots was something batshit crazy. "Okay...okay. She said somethin' 'bout an intruder alarm, uh, somethin' 'bout how they sense movement and you gotta stay still or..."

Could he cut them? They're gnarled and thick. Even a focused effort would take a lot of his strength and he can't even reach into his pocket _or_ his boot. He could still breathe, but that was only a matter of time...

"I've hit a few breakthroughs since you were away."

Blake sees more than hears the tall, voluptuous woman walk in. Unable to even squirm now his eyes helplessly follow the brightest spot of color stalking past the brown and green with purpose. Even Barbara's hair doesn't match the intensity of her red locks, leading him to wonder if it's artificial -- it flows down her shoulders and sways well past her hips in crimson curls. Her dress is long, green and flowing. Simple compared to the flower and plant tattoos coating her arms, hands and even neck.

"Hey, Red!" Harleen chirps. "I'm positively _green_ with envy with what you've done with the pl-"

Pamela slaps a firm hand over her mouth.

"I _thought_ I made the rules as simple as possible." She's looking at Harleen with the exasperated frown of a worn-out babysitter. "No harming plants...and no _people_. Humans are enough of a blight as it is without being given free invitations to my house."

"But Blake cares about the environment!" She says, rather garbled behind Pamela's hand. "Real Boy Scout, here."

"Is that so?" The woman turns and looks down at him with a sharp eye, then promptly reaches between the roots and starts digging around in his pockets. At first he thinks she's going to disarm him -- not too farfetched, considering he was an unexpected guest -- but she goes right past his pistol and instead pulls out his crumpled box of cigarettes.

"Um. I dispose of those properly." Blake pauses. "...Usually?"

"At least he's honest." She sighs and, for a horrible second, looks like she's about to take them. Then she does, shoving them right into her pocket. "Disgusting."

" _Hey!_ " He snaps. "Give those back, you-"

"Very honest. So honest!" Harleen barks over his curses. "One of his _best_ features. ...Come _on_ , Pam. He's one of my friends." She pouts sullenly when all she gets is a grumpy look. An impressive reaction, really, since those roots still look quite ready to squeeze the life out of them both. "He helped take out Scarecrow's little shindig over at The Narrows. Blake's a real stand-up guy."

"There's no such thing." Pamela says without missing a beat. "But I'll play..."

Blake blinks when she leans in front of him, reaches out and cups his cheek with sudden tenderness.

"Are you?" She asks, then sighs and leans forward when he doesn't speak, close enough that her lips nearly brush his. She smells like flowers and freshly-turned soil. "A stand-up guy, that is."

"Yeah, the, uh...femme fatale schtick isn't really going to work on me." He says with an accompanying wince. "Sorry."

"Are you sure? A kiss from me has been known to put people in the hospital regardless of how they swing..." This is the first time he's seen Pamela smile and, Christ, he really hopes it'll be the last. "A side-effect when your entire body is venemous."

Pet hyenas and friends made out of poison. Harleen was making him look _normal_.

"You're poisonous...?" He tries to lean back, as best he can, in case her breath was the equivalent of a hazardous fume. "How does that happen?"

"It happens when the city uses you and throws you away like your life means _nothing_." Her voice is soft as a petal, but the venom behind her words makes him doubly glad Harleen is beside him to intervene. She drops his chin and pulls back.

"You know, we have more in common than you think." Blake says, keeping the relief off his face.

"I doubt it. I don't make a habit of taking what's not mine." Pamela sighs and drops her hand. "I've seen rude, but..."

"It's the toxin." Harleen blurts out. "It's been affecting him somethin' awful. Makin' him act weird. I'm tellin' ya, Pam, we're just tryin' to help. By the way, can you take these off? I kind of want to puke."

Blake shoots Harleen a look, but it seems to do the trick. The woman doesn't look sympathetic, or even all that surprised, but the hostile edge to her posture softens. Pamela pulls a thin needle out of her pocket and sticks it into one of the roots. Slowly, but surely, they slither away from him and lose most of their supernatural strength. Blake and Harleen wriggle them off and they flop onto the floor like ropes.

"Well, come on, then." She says as she stuffs the needle into her dress pocket and walks out of the room. "Touch anything else and you're out."

"Fine by me." Blake mutters, keeping as much distance as he can from the plants along the wall as they move deeper into the building. The hallway floors are springy and green like a freshly-trimmed lawn. It's amazing how something as basic as _grass_ can feel strange when in the wrong place. Looking around he can make out some of what the Plant Factory was supposed to be before it got shut down.

Pamela has repurposed one of the many rooms into her own study. There's a massive tree in the middle of the room, stretching all the way to curl against the ceiling and drape everything in long, trailing branches that nearly brush the floor. Harleen playfully runs in and out of them like a pale green curtain.

"How do you get them to...move?" Blake asks, much less charmed, even if it _was_ rather beautiful. To think...these could've been all over Gotham.

"Plants are always moving. You just can't see it with the naked eye." Pamela explains as she pulls open a drawer along the far wall, one he didn't even notice beneath the cluster of bushes. "Plants aren't designed to move like we do, but it doesn't mean they can't see the benefits with a little persuasion. My serum only works in short bursts for now."

"And if you hate people so much, why help us?"

"This toxin affects animals, too. Birds, mammals, insects. When they go rabid, when they die, it creates a chain reaction that affects the environment down to the smallest blade of grass." She pulls out a needle and eyes it rather...suggestively. "Getting rid of Crane and his work only makes sense. There are a few solutions that can clear it out. Trees are not the only plants that can circulate the air, just most effective. I can stimulate the natural function of trees through this..." She holds up a small vial. "...and make them, essentially, work overtime."

It's a clear liquid. Water, for all he knows. She spots the doubt on his face, because her crescent eyes narrow to disgruntled slits.

"Let me guess. You need _more_ proof?"

"A little peace-of-mind couldn't hurt. These are entire neighborhoods we're talking about."

Pamela pats the massive tree and murmurs what sounds like an apology into the bark before poking it. Harleen immediately mouths at him, ' _Don't be rude._ ', but he wasn't planning on it. He talked to that stupid fern one of his co-workers gave him. A giant probably-genetically-altered tree wasn't that much different, really.

"One puff." Pamela says as she hands him a cigarette, much to his surprise. "Just one."

While he's tempted to take _fifty_ after his brush with a deadly plant, he obeys. One long drag, then a slow exhale into the air. Like an invisible hand has been waiting in the wings the smoke lingers...then is snatched into nothingness. Vanishes right before his eyes.

Now, Blake's been smoking since he left college. More so than usual nowadays. He's used to the tightening in his lungs when he exceeds a certain amount of movement, the cravings that cause his hands to shake. The next few breaths he take in have him feeling healthier and more clear-headed in what feels like years. There isn't even the faintest whisper of someone else's voice in the back of his mind. _Clarity_.

"...Wow." He says, then puffs into the air again. Pamela scowls at him, but just like before, the smoke is _pulled_ right into the swaying branches with supernatural speed like it was never there. "That's...that's nuts. I thought I had a solution figured out, what with the smoke interfering with its effects, but..."

"Smoke is only a temporary solution. You don't want to replace something terrible with something bad when you can just get rid of both."

Pamela shuffles through the drawers nestled along the overgrown walls. He peers at her tattoos. There's a number written in-between the swirling drawings of ferns and roses...

"This is a type of weed." He jerks to attention when she holds up a bag. "It releases a dynamic form of bacteria that actively filters out foreign chemicals in the body during its lifespan. Before you _ask_ , don't worry. They won't control the human body from the inside and turn them into zombies." She pauses at Blake's expression. "...That was a joke."

It's the closest he gets to seeing a genuine smile on Pamela's face. Of course, he has to go and ruin _that_ , too, by opening his big mouth.

"What's the catch?" Harleen looks to him, clearly astonished that's his next question. "I'm not trying to start anything. There's just _always_ a catch."

"Whatever it is, are you in any position to negotiate?" Pamela sighs. "You've befriended quite the skeptic."

"Sheesh, you're one to talk, Pam. 'Sides, he's a detective." Harleen has spun around the trailing willow branches and wrapped them around herself. "Askin' questions _completes_ him."

It's friendly banter, but he's short on patience. Either the mask was slipping or he truly didn't give a fuck anymore.

"I'm not here to play nice, Pamela, so you can take your manners and shove it. I need to keep Gotham from losing its shit." It dawns on him he sounds just like Bane.

"Typical. Well, you might as well make yourself useful before the takeover." Blake stares at her blankly. "...That was also a joke. Well, take it, then. You and Harleen have a lot of ground to cover."

"Yeah. Literally." Blake says as he reaches for it...   

 

_"...no, we actually met at a bar. I know, I know, stop. Come on, guys. It's true. Even though it sounds like something out of a movie."_

_He grins in the mirror at the smiling faces just over his shoulder._

_"So if it's like a movie, when are you having kids, then?"_

"Uh, Earth to Blake?" Harleen is saying, waving a hand in front of his face. "Oh, no...that Amir kid was tellin' me about this..."

"That's...troublesome." Pamela murmurs. "When's the last time your friend was exposed to the toxin?"

"Uh, more than once, that's for sure..."

"Do you know what type...?"

"Crane called it a fear to-"    

_-twinkling light strings, white as far as the eye can see, laughter on the breeze clipping over a thousand voices over a special day-_

-he slips and falls...then just sways from side-to-side. He has no idea what the hell's happened and he has to blink up at the tree towering above him. The willow branches have...caught him? Yeah. Caught him. Holding him halfway suspended, dipping him like a dance partner. Blake squirms and pulls away and they slacken like they'd never moved at all.

"...Huh." Pamela blinks. "I've...never seen them do that before."

The detective stares at the tree. "Uh..." He says to it, even though he feels silly. "...Thanks."

The two women are staring at him with varying degrees of concern. It's the first time he sees something like sadness in Pamela's eyes. The brief break from the clutter in his head just makes it feel all the worse.

"They keep happening. These weird visions, like I'm dreaming while I'm awake. All the time, like I can't even stop it..." Existential terror is starting to grip him now. He can't take this anymore. He _can't_.

"Crane's toxin gets worse the more you breathe it in. It will fade, eventually, provided he hasn't found a way to make its influence penetrate deeper. The more you spread my work the better off everyone will be." She seems to reconsider, then sighs, reaches into her pocket and gives him back his box of cigarettes. "Kick the habit someday. You've got enough junk rattling around in there as it is."

Blake snatches the vial (and the cigarettes) out of her hand, turns and runs out of the room.

"Wait, we're not done yet!"

It may be cleaner within the Plant Factory, _better_ for him, but he needs the familiar. Good or not. He makes it out the back door and all the way to the front gate where he catches his breath and tries to sort out the buzz in his head. Harleen finds him a few minutes later.

"...Blake?"

He sighs through his nose, regrets it immediately when it throbs painfully, and looks over his shoulder. She seems a little unsure where to start, Pamela's equipment in a borrowed bag slung over one shoulder.

"Listen. That whole thing about Bane. I wasn't tryin' to make you feel bad or nothin'. You got a lot to worry about. I've just been there...okay?" Harleen scuffs her shoe into the dirt. "I've been there."

Blake looks to the swollen skin dotting the knuckles on his right hand.

"To answer your question...yeah. He did. But I picked the fight in the first place. So I guess that makes me the asshole. Or both of us, since I was just angry because..." He trails off. "Look, I've been a prick."

Harleen shrugs and looks away. It's probably supposed to look careless, but he can see she's still hurt. He's been feeling like shit since yesterday...then he had to _be_ a shit to someone who was worried about him. Who honestly thought he was in a domestic violence situation, no less. Bane, Barsad, now Harleen? It's like he's deadset on shoving everyone away from him all over again. A twinge of fear spikes through him at how much he's reminded of his twelve year-old self.

"About what happened, I was angry and I lashed out. I..." He blows out a sigh. "I was just going to give him a nice sock across the face for that stunt he pulled at the warehouse and sort of went...overboard." ' _More than overboard. I kicked him in his injured ribs and threw his daughter's pregnancy in his face. Bruce even told me not to and I have to hope I didn't just flush one of my plans down the crapper-_ '

"To be fair..." Harleen plays with one of her pigtails. "Bane _did_ try to kill someone you were tryin' to make a peace treaty with. That's pretty overboard, too."

"Yeah, well." Now that he doesn't have any more distractions the ache hits him full force and sinks all the way into his bones. "I guess two wrongs don't always make a right." Blake twists the cigarette in and out of his hands miserably. The grass _crunches_ softly as Harleen flops down next to him.

"...You know your problem, Sherlock?" She rests a hand on his shoulder. "You try to get too clinical when you ain't that type of guy. You feel deeply. That's okay. You don't have to be a smart aleck when you're hurting. I'd give you more of my usual psychologist routine..." She adds with an ironic quirk to her eyebrows. "...but you've already used up my consultation fee."

His laugh feels like a razorblade in his lungs, pricking him with every breath.

"Cute guy like you probably has fellas linin' up to your door like a new Amusement Mile attraction." She leans down to try and catch his gaze. "...Why Bane?"

Shit. He doesn't want to talk about this. Anger is easier. More rewarding. But it's the lost, grieving, immature kid in him talking and he knows it. Now that he's out of the moment, away from _all_ the awkward and distant and burning moments, he's smack dab in the middle of why he keeps coming back to Bane.

"He offered me an out...and I didn't take it." Blake says, slowly, feeling his way past the righteous indignation and closer to where the ache starts to throb like a wound. "If I had..."

"...things could've turned out much different?" Harleen offers. He nods, then just stares morosely at his hands when the past few days threaten to overwhelm. "Start small, Sherlock. What do you like about 'im?"

"He's one of the bravest people I've ever met." Blake starts. "Not just in the sense that he's not afraid of anything, but that he's...convicted. I went a too many years being tugged back and forth with who I was as a person. Being what people wanted to see rather than what I needed to be, even as I knew it was wrong. It's...I won't get too much into that, but it's...he's just inspiring, in a lot of ways. Every time I'm around him I always want to try harder. I want to be my best self."

"Not a bad place to start. What else? Don't overthink it." She warns. "Just say whatever first comes to mind."

"He stands up for what's right. Even when it's messy or complicated. He saved my life back at the city hall." Harleen's eyes widen. "Yeah. When the whole place was coming down, he...covered me. From falling rubble. I held a gun to his face not a few minutes earlier and he saved my life." He barks a laugh. "Guy's crazy."

Harleen looks more serious than he's ever seen her.

"Now what _don't_ you like about 'im?"

"He's fucking stubborn." He says, instantly, and just like that she's laughing again. "I've known him for months, we've been through so much _crap_ together, but he still gets so... _stingy_ with who he is and where he's come from and all the personal battles he's going through...every time I reach out to him I'm always afraid he's going to take it personally. How does that even work? We're a couple! Of course it's personal. I _care_."

Everything and the kitchen sink is tumbling out of him now.

"A relationship can't work on secrets. I get it, he's part of a group that thrives on secrets night and _day_ , but I'm...I'm _not_ the League. I'm tired of having the rug pulled out from under me when all he had to do was just open up a little. I just...I want him to lean on me more. Not as a favor, but because he needs it and I want what's good for him as much as he does for me."

He clutches his hair with his cigarette-hand and nearly sets his bangs on fire.

"Then what he did during the meeting? Shit, even I'm not sure what to think about that. I'm pissed. I mean, I know he's a little off his rocker. He literally wants to give Gotham a bomb like some twisted Christmas present, but that... _that_ was completely out-of-control. God, Harleen, I love him, but he makes me so _mad_ sometimes. It just makes me wonder what-"

Blake pauses, abruptly, and slowly covers his mouth with one hand. He looks to Harleen, who's grinning from ear-to-ear.

"Oh...shit." He whispers for the second time today. "...I love him."

"Even Bane can have a classic Gotham romance, huh?" She looks kind of fascinated, steepling her fingers beneath her chin. "Wow."

Blake cocks an eyebrow. "What's a classic Gotham romance?"

"You know. Two badass heartthrobs fallin' in love in the middle of a conspiracy. Give or take a few shoot-outs."

"Yeah, we...definitely complete that list."

"He clearly feels the same about you." Harleen nudges him after he just blinks. "Oh, come _on_. The way he looks at ya? Even when he was frothin' at the mouth it was like you was the only person in the room."

"You caught on quick." Her perceptiveness could be really unsettling sometimes. Not even Barbara or Selina put it together. "Actually, I kind of wondered whether or not you knew we were together."

"I wanted to be a family counselor at one point." She says, sly as the devil. "Learned how to read what people try to keep under wraps. That love admission has you rattled, though. The idea of a long-term romantic relationship with him seem like a bad idea?"

Not at all. Quite the opposite. Blake looks ahead of him at the dry, brown land surrounding the Plant Factory. He lets his eyes fall closed and imagines...

_...strolling across the pliant, wet sand of a beach in the fall. Hand-in-hand and talking about what to have for dinner. Maybe what movie to watch. Bane's without his mask and idly scratching at the scars running over his nose, his mouth, humming enigmatic responses over the breeze and chuckling away Blake's indignant replies. They live somewhere away from Gotham. Maybe on one of the neighboring islands. Maybe on the outskirts of Metropolis in a small house. Quiet, but not too quiet. Somewhere perfect for the two of them._

_Somewhere of their own in a life consumed like a sweet drink. A sleek coffee table already showing wear and tear in the living room. An aged wooden chair with decades to its name in their kitchen. Black and white shirts left unfolded and sliding off the bed. Leather coats and leather gloves so worn they're soft as velvet, meticulously put away exactly where they need to be. People tell them their home has a strong smell. Tea and smoke. Earl Grey with menthol on the better days._

_Their furniture clashes, their habits barely mingle, everything tumbles together like dappled spots on a bird's wing. Their very own chaotic harmony as they pursue justice and daily life in equally small steps._

_Small steps they take together._

He said he didn't want it. He said a life like that would never happen. Bane wasn't the only one who was a bad liar.

"Uh-oh. You're doing it again." Harleen says, waving a hand in front of his face. Blake blinks a few times and comes back into himself. "Come back to me."

"No, it's not that. I'm just...thinking." He explains. "The toxin isn't always non-stop nightmares."

"That's the trick, though." She frowns. "It _wants_ you to like it. It's kind of like a bad relationship that way...the sweet stuff doesn't make up for the bad parts."

Blake doesn't respond. He pulls out his lighter and flicks it.

"It's...it's just kind of funny. We started out as enemies. Opposite sides of the fence, hating each other, but then it turned out so different. I'll be honest with you. Enemies are easier." The flame struggles to break through. "That a good enough answer?"

"Remember...just because someone loves you doesn't mean they're good for you." Harleen says. "I ain't sayin' that 'cause the guy is fuckin' scary, either. I'm tellin' you what I learned the hard way. You said he saved your life, yeah? Joker saved my life, too. Gave me all sorts of things that I needed and he ended up being the wrong guy. Even Bats saved my life, indirectly, and he's a pinhead."

Blake had said it himself. There wasn't a single person on the planet who wanted to think all their blood, sweat and tears could end up going to waste. But his feelings aren't guided by fear. Fear of lost time, misdirection, vulnerability, none of it. His brain and gut have never been in more perfect alignment and they're both telling him, right now, Bane wasn't a waste of time...and that was much _much_ more astounding than any excuse he could come up with.

"What about you, Harleen?" He asks as he finally lights his cigarette. The lighter has has one last puff in it before it dies, right when they're back out of the Plant Factory's boundaries, to boot. Thank goodness for small favors. "Got anything on your mind?"

"A lotta things." She swings her arms casually. "Well, with one big thing. It's kind of silly, though."

He puffs and stares at her patiently as she figures out where to begin. If it was something as rough as barely surviving the Joker or being incarcerated, he could handle that. Especially after his attitude earlier.

"...Do you think I should ask Selina out on a date once this is all over?"

"Huh?" Blake pauses in mid-drag. Harleen immediately hunches her shoulders a little and it takes him a moment to realize she's _embarrassed_. It's such a foreign expression on her face he stumbles over his next words. "Oh, um...yeah. Yeah, I mean...you like her?"

"...Shoulda kept my big mouth shut." She answers gloomily.

"No, keep going." He coughs out a laugh. "It's not going to be any weirder than anything else that's happened today, come on."

"That's true, I guess." She pokes her forefingers together. "Well. Um. I haven't been with anyone since the Joker. At first I thought it was 'cause I was too busy, then I got free time and didn't find anybody. Then I thought it was 'cause I couldn't find people I was into, 'til I did. It was really one long conga line of denial."

It sounded like she'd already put the pieces together. Made sense. But what she's looking for isn't the root of the problem. It's validation.

"First I was thinkin' it'd be easier to jus' rock the single life 'til I turn into a crazy cat lady." She sighs. "But I don't wanna."

"So you were enlightened after moving _in_ with a crazy cat lady." Blake notes with a small smile. Harleen returns it in a rather adorable blush that she tries to hide behind her fluffy hair. He'd much rather she have _that_ on her face than that other look, so he decides it's time to be straightforward. "I don't know Selina very well, but I _do_ know she doesn't put up with just anybody." He pauses when Harleen looks more sad than happy at this declaration. "Uh. Maybe that's not the best way to phrase it. She...she clearly _likes_ you. She's always doing you little favors, even when she acts all put-upon about it, and I think that says a lot."

It's sad. For all her endless good humor, Harleen seemed to have a few spots on her self-esteem. He thinks about what Reilly would say in a situation like this.

"I mean, what's not to like? You're funny. You stand up for what's right, even though you got sidelined a few years ago. You're clever. You're a big help in a pinch. Really, you're all right, Harleen. I don't see why you shouldn't at least try." He pulls out his phone and starts connecting to local news stations. "Selina doesn't pussyfoot around, so neither should you."

It's not a bad closing sentence...until he realizes the unconscious pun. Harleen gapes at him for a full three seconds, then starts shrieking. Blake slaps a hand to his face, though he can't help but join her in on the laughter.

"I've gotta tell her you said that!"

"No, please, she's already threatening to call me Static Shock."

"No, I've _gotta_." She wipes at her eyes as best she can with her heavy eyeshadow. "Thanks, Blake. That means a lot..." Blake leans forward worriedly when she keeps wiping at her eyes. Harleen turns away and adjusts her mask. "It's fine. Jus'...allergies."

Their attention is abruptly turned at the scenes playing on the small screen. Helicopter footage of what seems like mobs. Fighting, screaming, running...chaos.

" _This just in...new reports are coming in from the Old Gotham area._ " The reporter says, alarm breaking through her professional veneer. " _The Gotham City Police Department and the Gotham Fire Department have issued a joint warning. Stay inside your homes. Hide any sharp objects, firearms or dangerous substances you see..._ "

"That motherfucker." Blake growls, phone trembling in his anger. "All in a day's fucking work..."

"I'd love to feed 'im to Bud and Lou." Harleen pulls out the needles Pamela gave her and punches him in the shoulder. "C'mon."

" _This is the seventh reported incident of unexplained attacks this week in the downtown area_.  _Please stay inside._ " 

\--

The Acres crew is smaller than it used to be. Unlawful arrests and toxin victims alike have attested to that, though the former was mitigated somewhat by the presence of two fully-grown hyenas on the property.

"Tore an officer's hand clean off when they tried to take me in." Tatsu tells him by way of greeting. "I think Lou buried it somewhere out back."

"They're pretty handy, huh?" Blake snorts. "Hyenas are definitely not covered in basic training."

"You're spending _way_ too much time around Harleen." She scoffs and, to his surprise, gives him a friendly nudge. "Good to have you back."

Harleen fills everyone in on the details with remarkable efficiency. They have to split up in small groups to cover as many corners as they can while remaining inconspicuous -- there are hardly any people out and more patrol cars than ever. It was all they could do to keep a bad situation from being a hell of a lot worse.

Toxic Acres was closer in proximity to plant life, with large fields _and_ trees to its name, so some of the crew starts injecting there first. Blake, on the other hand, is assigned planting, despite knowing jack _shit_ about anything involving farming, botany or even keeping a goddamn houseplant alive for more than a month. He keeps the notes Pamela gave them close on hand and references them constantly as he goes about his task undercover.

For _hours_ Blake keeps his head low, his pace casual yet quick as he goes planting seeds in walls, in concrete, out of the way of foot traffic and roaming eyes. He'd take off his mask and try out the cleaner air himself, but he wasn't about to give his already rattled brain any more to work off of. He ducks into an alley or one of the few still-open buildings when scrutiny threatens to follow up. He barely notices the burn working its way through his bum leg. If anything he's feeling better than ever.

Planting weeds and sneaking around was anti-climactic, but as long as it got the job done he didn't care. When he finds Crane, though...

His phone rings when he's finished making rounds in and out of Old Gotham. The Acres crew already called him to let him know they were spreading out to East End and The Narrows. His chest tightens, instinctively, when he realizes it could be Bane. He prepares for what he wants to tell him ("I'm pissed off, I'm sorry, I think I love you-") when he pulls his phone out, only to blink when he sees the caller ID.

"...Finn?" He says, hand shaking. "You shouldn't be calling right now..."

" _Blake...?_ " He hears instead. " _Blake?_ "

His heart leaps in his throat.

"Wait. Joel...? Joel!" Blake has to take a moment to steady the excitement in his voice. "Hey, kid. It's been a while. How are you? Why are you calling?"

" _Where are you, Blake?_ "

"I'm...I can't tell you that, kid. I'm sorry. I'm safe, though. I'm all right." He pauses when the boy doesn't respond. "You okay? You don't sound so good."

" _Um. N-No._ "

Blake strains to hear something, anything, in the background to clue him into the strange tone in his voice. The kid's voice is echoing oddly, like he's somewhere small and close. The warm thrill that started up in his veins starts to run cold.

"Joel..." Blake swallows slowly. "...Why are you using Finn's cell and not the landline?"

For a few moments all he can hear is the boy's unsteady breathing. Then...

" _There's monsters in our house._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A major reason I prefer to stick to an updating schedule (with the occasional break here and there) is because I get Imposter's Syndrome something _awful_. "This chapter's gonna be great! I can't _wait_ to share it with everyone!" transforms into, "Who the hell would want to read this crap?" with the speed of a moving train.
> 
> The longer I wait in-between posting any sort of creative work the more time there is for insidious and productivity-destroying thoughts to worm their way into my mind. It's none of my business what any _other_ fanfic writer wants to do with their craft, of course. Post once per week! Once per month! Once per year! I'm so grateful for writers sharing their incredible work. It seriously gets me through the tough times.
> 
> Either I'm frequent or I just...don't post shit _ever_.


	56. Precipice

Alfred had cornered him a mere hour before they left. A bold move, if not especially wise, and it was that simple detail that had Bane listening at _all_ to what Bruce's aging nanny had to say.

_"Bane." He'd stared him down the entire conversation, though without ease. His wariness would never truly leave. "What you do is not just for you or the League. What you do is for the future of Gotham."_

_"I have done more for Gotham in eight months than you and your ward have in a decade." Bane was pleased to see his sneer was not lost through the mask. Not with the way Alfred's already poor pallor blanched further. "You preach to an old choir."_

_"I know a thing or two about preaching, Bane. You do an adept job telling people what they need to hear. I'm attempting to return the favor." A quirk to his brows. "I'm...also sure I have a few years on you."_

_There could have been genuine humor there. Perhaps it was simply the way the man operated, ever suffering in the shadow of others more powerful or more peurile. Alfred was a reasonable man, but one overly concerned with keeping the peace. A crumbling pillar lacking the strength of character or finesse to make his final years matter. For all that he was afraid of Bane, his League, the masked man had no intention of laying a hand on him._

_Not when servitude to Bruce was crueler than anything he could **ever** come up with._

_"You've taken care of Talia since she was a little girl." The butler continued on an increasingly dangerous note. "Even though she was Ra's al Ghul's child. I can only imagine the resentment that would have caused."_

_"You don't have to imagine much. You clearly know more than the average person about the League Of Shadows." It had been hardly a threat, but Alfred had stiffened nonetheless at his tone. "It's a good thing much of your knowledge is irrelevant now or your safety could have been compromised."_

_"The truth will always be stranger than fiction." Alfred had said, instead, in a noble attempt to keep the conversation going. "The tale of one escaping the Lazarus Pit, hundreds of years old and unknown to most of the world...how did you manage to climb out?"_

_"Do you intend to psychoanalyze me, Alfred?" Bane had almost laughed. "Bruce boring you?"_

_"Rather." He responded smoothly. "There is a close bond between you and her. Bruce brought interesting stories to me all those years back. About the skilled, and strange, student of Ra's al Ghul perpetually shadowed by another. I never knew, however, who she was."_

_"I'm sure my life would make a wonderful bedtime story should you ever have grandchildren." Bane replied. "Make your point, Alfred."_

_"...Can I trust you to make the right decision?" Alfred watches him with a brazen sympathy he doesn't need or want. "Will you be able to let her go when the time comes?"_

_As taunting as a speck of yellow in a river bed, it glimmers. A chance at connecting with a kindred soul in an unexpected place. They were two aging mentors still bound to their charge; their foolish, deluded and self-centered charge doing more harm than good despite their best efforts. Alfred had never let Bruce go, this much was clear, and Bane would otherwise enjoy rubbing the hypocrisy in his face if he wasn't so horribly unsure of himself._

_"Why have you wasted so much time on Bruce?" Bane rasped, patience stretched near to snapping. "Why do you linger?" Alfred had averted his gaze, then, though not out of fear._

_"...I could ask you the same thing."_

_The conversation reached an abrupt end. John would've wanted him to take this chance at a better acquaintance. Reach out, pluck it between two fingers and make peace. Bane, however, only had eyes for what the next hour would hold._

_His arrogant detective had made sure of that._

The day is chilly, the ocean not very far away on this small island. Gulls, geese and the occasional pigeon fill the air in intermittent flurries. Bane has been waiting and knitting from his post for the past hour, as much as he'd rather be doing anything else.

" _She's here._ " Bruce says into his earpiece. " _Wait for the signal._ "

"There is little else for me to do." Bane mutters as he ties up the end of his pattern and starts another. "Hurry up."

His side-window is smudged with dust, but he can see clearly enough when she arrives. Talia smiles and preens in Bruce Wayne's attention when he walks up in a casual sweater bearing flowers. The performance she put on for the public having never lost its edge, perhaps as romantic as novel excerpt from the perspective of the few passerbys in a relatively abandoned marketplace. For polite company, for temporary suitors, Talia al Ghul had the workaday honed to a razor edge.

Bane, on the other hand, found himself still fumbling with little mundanities. A delicate art he never had enough time to practice. It was impressive. Maybe it always would be.

Except when she leans forward for, of all things, a kiss. A telltale tilt to her jaw begging for reciprocation obvious even at his distance.

Bruce lets her.

Wrath clutches Bane in a steel grip and he resists the urge to send his fist through the dingy window. He hadn't missed Bruce's transparent horror when he discovered the true identity of his favorable Miranda Tate. What he no doubt thought was cleverly hidden behind his _infallible_ act (one better suited for a children's play than a double life). He loved her. Somehow, in just a few months' time, he'd grown to _love_ Talia.

' _So the pot calls the kettle._ ' His subconscious muses as he attempts, and fails, to unravel his anger through the yarn in his hands. ' _How could you have ever foreseen what John Blake would do to you?_ '

Bane proceeds to wait with about as much elegance as a starving animal. He stuffs the thread away to pace back and forth in his dusty hideway on the second floor. Many places were emptier in and around Gotham these days. The city has seen its largest emigration in decades -- the rich attempting to flee the bed they've made, the less fortunate fearful of the backlash and feeling the pull of Metropolis, or the surrounding fishing islands, or other countries entirely.

Some stayed, however. As much as the media tried to spin the actions of the League as anarchic chaos (Gotham had a slightly easier time of doing this thanks to the Joker), his results were undeniable -- there was a sizeable portion of the population grateful for his appearance, many that wanted to personally see Gotham through its storm. This place was too small to even be called a fishing village. The only people who stayed here were workers, occasionally workers' families, and squatters.

...and his daughter.

When the two finish their meal by the seaside and head across the sands and meager street to where Talia has supposedly been staying all this time does he finally put on his helmet. He walks out of the abandoned shack and past where Alfred is parked and waiting to take them both away from the boondocks and off the island as quietly as possible. Bane gives him a brief nod when he walks by, one Alfred returns over the newspaper he's 'reading'.

A skinny girl in a yellow raincoat peers at him curiously when he walks past. A colorful backpack is slung over her shoulders. There weren't many children here. Bane waits until she's well out of sight before heading to the front door of the unassuming little shack.

A shadow lingers in the front window. Someone he doesn't recognize -- a resident, perhaps, or a regular visitor. The door opens easily (and, thankfully, without much noise). The person has barely turned around before Bane's knocked them out with a swift fist in the stomach. They don't hit the ground -- Bane catches them as they fall and quickly lays them down on the futon nestled in the corner. Once he's sure they're passed out he tugs off his helmet and looks around the room proper.

Clipped voices drift through the short hall to his right -- Bruce was no doubt working overtime to disguise any sign of Bane's entrance -- but for a moment Bane only has eyes for his surroundings. There are touches here that could only be from Talia. A pile of firewood bundled neatly in one corner. Her coat carefully hung up by the door, a trait she picked up from him over the years. A glance at the homemade throw unfinished on the couch...she still knit.

The masked man runs a trembling hand over it. It threatens to make him linger forever. But he can't.

Bane moves through the cramped, creaking space with purpose and toward the room where the talking is coming from.

Talia is in the middle of slipping off her shirt, Bruce leaning in and whispering something in her ear. They both turn in shock when he opens the door. One feigned, the other _quite_ genuine.

"Talia." Bane says. "End of the line."

" _Bane_...?" She breathes. "What the-" The young woman is shocked. Confused. She looks between him and Bruce, again and again. Another time it would have been the correct reaction. Now he had no patience for niceties. No persuasion. Nothing but the desperate need to end this chase once and for all.

"You're coming with me."

"Bane, wait-"

"Lay down your performance." Bane's voice is thick with disgust, both at the sight and her instinctual attempt to wheedle him into complacency. "There are few lines that haven't been crossed at _this_ point." He grabs her arm and twists it behind her back and holds her firm as he pulls her toward the door. She was a student of the League as much as he -- it would be a considerable effort to restrain her if she chose to fight back or flee during a lapse in awareness.

"You would work with Bruce?" She says, trying to use her words where strength is failing her.

" _Spare me._ " He glances at her stomach. "How is your child?"

That stops her, but only temporarily. There is a telltale swell to her stomach, all the more notable now that she's discarded her coat. Something profoundly _raw_ claws through him at the sight, but he has no ability to dwell right now.

"Bane, let her go-" Bruce begins, expression deeply troubled as he puts his coat back on, then reaches out to _touch_ him, of all things. Bane has to will himself not to kill him _again_.

" _Silence._ " He hisses over one shoulder. "You've done your part. Months ago, I may add."

"Bane, if I had known..." Bruce says.

"You don't understand." Talia is saying. "I had no other way to make you see what we were capable of."

"No other _way?_ " For the first time in his life he honestly, truly, wants to strike her. But he doesn't. ...He hasn't, not once in his life. No. He struck John, not two days ago, and tore a rift in what had become one of his most important foundations. "How is bearing Bruce's child something that could convince me?"

"Because we could raise the child together, just you and me-" That fanatic hope is back in her eyes. "An heir to the League..."

"I am your father, not your _lover_. What sort of unnatural-"

"We were never natural, Bane! We will never _be_ natural or normal!" She grips the front of his vest and pulls back with a strength that belies her slight frame. "You never cared about things like that before!"

" _She's gone against everything you stand for and you still want to take her in alive, protect her like she's your precious little girl."_ John's voice rings with painful clarity in his mind _. "Because you believe Talia is the beginning and end of your entire world._ _"_

"None of this would have happened if you hadn't met _him._ " Talia spits, as if peering into his mind and reading his very thoughts. "I would almost understand if it had been anyone other than John Blake."

John Blake...? John was his first brush with sanity in _years_. Bane had been drowning all this time, a maelstrom of compulsion, and he hadn't even _known_. Not until that man took him inside his childhood home and let him cook dinner with his boys. Attend a seven year-old's birthday party. Play chess during a snowstorm. It was shameful -- all this time Bane had been sucking in inferior air while giving others advice on how to _breathe_.

Bane crushes his eyes shut and uses these memories like a tether. Every mindful avoidance of the scar on his back, sympathetic without pity. Every careful question about his mask, then the _lack_ thereof as trust blossomed like a rare flower from fight to conversation to circumstance. Each and every kiss, to the last they shared sheltered in the stars on a hilltop, that slowed down his heartrate and warmed his blood. John fed his touch-starved lover with a boundless generosity that, somehow, bloomed without a hitch in heartless soil.

He opens his eyes again and sees despair, four or five months pregnant and struggling to free herself from his grip. The detective, ever true to his nature, saw him exactly as he was...and Bane had pursued, instead, a lie.

"Where did I go wrong...?" He twists open the bedroom door and drags her down the hall. "I don't know if I'll be able to find a cure for this...this _lunacy_ , but I won't stop trying. I will put you away for as long as possible, where you won't ever be able to escape."

"You would put me in a _pit_ , then?" Talia screams up at him as she tries and fails to pull out of his grasp. "You would trap me forever?"

Bane yanks her close and snarls.

" _This is a pit of your own digging!_ "

Bruce's footsteps rumble after him. Bane is almost at the front door when he feels a soft weight on his back. The accursed man is trying to stop him _again_. He turns to yell at him, this time in earnest...and pauses halfway. He lets go of one of Talia's wrists to slowly reach up, over his shoulder, and gingerly feel the knife sticking out of his back.

Talia stops struggling immediately. Her eyes stretch wide.

"What? No...no, no, _no_." She whispers. "No, Bruce, what have you-"

Bane leans on her, a hand on her shoulder, and for a dizzying moment everything is normal again. Is as it _should_ be. Talia by his side. Holding him near, weathering the pain with him, sharing in his anger. Just as it had been in the pit. In the League, out of the League. In Bhutan. In Kazakhastan. In Russia. In Morroco. In nameless villages and unoccupied forests and hideouts older than some countries. In Gotham.

"Bane, Bane." She says, hand on his cheek, no longer trying to get away. "Breathe."

His Talia.

He comes into himself when the pain seeps even through the mask.

"This wasn't supposed to happen...!" She's crying. He hasn't seen her cry in years. "This wasn't-"

He feels it distantly, through the mask's soothing cloud, but he knows better than to pull it out. His padded armor kept it from making a complete entrance. It will have to do the additional work of holding it in place when Bruce shoves Talia to one side and tries to finish him off.

Bane takes a step back to grapple the man's wrist (wielding _another_ knife), the other closing around his neck. The hilt protruding from his back brushes menacingly against the cheap wall. Rather than trying to wrench out of his grasp or deliver another blow Bruce simply shoves forward with all his weight and tries to unbalance him. To back him up, hit the knife against the wall to sink the last few inches in and finish the job.

"I should've done this a _long_ time ago." Bruce hisses in his face. His pupils have shrunk to pinpoints. "There's only so many times you can try to kill a man, Bane, before they bite _back_."

"We had an agreement. A truce." Bane snarls. "You filthy _liar._ "

"After all you've done a lie is the least of my concerns. I may have spared the Joker, but-"

"-you will regret sparing _me_."

Bane suddenly wrenches the man's arm inward at the elbow, foiling his grip and sending the knife to the floor. Then he leans back and kicks him in the stomach to send him falling. Bruce is swift. He pulls out a batarang, deceptively small, and flicks it right into his thigh with deadly precision.

Bane tears it out immediately and flings it away. It's coated in what he knows is a potent chemical that could knock him out in seconds. He'll have to act quick.

Bruce pulls out another and tries to jab it at Bane's neck, between his helmet and collar and terribly _close_ , and it's being faced with the very real possibility of having his artery severed does he realize this is no mere betrayal. Bruce never killed. Even when he should. Bane twists his head to the side right as he drives the batarang down. It pierces the wall, as smooth as butter, and the man immediately pulls out another.

"Talia, get out of here!" Bruce says. "I can-"

" _Get away from him!_ "

Bruce is grabbed by his shoulders and suddenly yanked back. Bane stumbles forward, ungainly, and nearly hits the opposite wall, barely twisting in time to favor his injured back. Numbness is settling into his legs. They're grappling with one another now -- Talia is savage, trying to kill, but she's pregnant and unarmed. In the span it takes for Bane to gain his bearings Bruce has already struck her firmly. A clean blow that slumps Talia in his arms.

" _Talia!_ "

Bane makes the mistake of reaching out to her again, something he already registers as the most foolish thing he could have done. Bruce, one arm holding her limp body steady, thrusts the last batarang clean through his hand. Bane grabs it, tears it out and flings it from him, but the damage is done.

Bruce is there, Talia is there...then they're both gone. The meager living room warps and stretches around him. It's more instinct than higher brain function that moves him through the melting furniture and back outside. The harsh glare of the day swarms him in white and he resists the urge to crush his eyes shut. The black car is here. Alfred is waiting.

"Alfred..." Bane wheezes, grappling for something to steady his failing gait and instead hitting the ground on his hands and knees. " _Alfred!_ Bruce has been infected, somehow, you need to stop him-"

The old man is white as a sheet. He can see doubt growing on his face, plain even in the glaring sunlight. Talia's limp body has been pushed in the back seat. Bruce is saying something to him as he gets into the vehicle. He can barely hear. He can barely see. Everything is weightless...

"-Bruce, wait, stop. Just stop-" Alfred's voice goes from muffled to clear when he opens the door and steps out. "Tell me what happened..."

"Bane is psychotic. That's what happened." Bruce interjects over Alfred's protests. "Did you forget about him trying to attack me at the warehouse? We have Talia now. Let's _go_."

"We can't just leave him there." The old man argues. "This isn't like you. What happened with Ra's was different-"

He can't warn him. His mouth isn't working anymore. His limbs might as well be made out of lead for all that they obey him. The door shuts with a _click_ and Alfred starts making his way over to him, face scrunched with pity...then he hits the ground when Bruce strikes him, too.

Shadows finally come, unwelcome and all-encompassing. The masked man watches through a dimming light as the elderly man is pushed into the passenger seat and propped up, as if he's simply sleeping. The car peels out of the road to leave in a cloud of dust and parting gulls.

\--

St. Swithin's is quiet.

It's _never_ quiet. Not at night. Not even when half of the boys went out on a school trip. The sheer wrongness on display hits him well before he crosses the familiar street and up to the front gate. His mind runs over the possibilities over and over and over again. No matter how many times he stretches the truth, he ends up at the same horrible conclusion.

It took far too long to get to the orphanage, despite running as hard as he could and taking every shortcut he was able. The first sign everything has gone to shit was the neighborhood being...still. No kids running around, hardly anyone driving or riding their bikes. While he saw a wrecked car (empty, when he checked inside) and more than a few pets (running around on leashes like they were suddenly abandoned by their owners), it might as well be an urban graveyard.

The building appears no worse for the wear superficially. Then he sees one of the shattered windows. He had to trust Joel found a good place to lay low. He's done it before. The only reason Blake could find him whenever he scurried off during a panic attack is because he knew him. He had to be okay. He _had_ to be. The other boys were older. They've been in scraps before, they knew how to run or grab the nearest object and defend themselves...

"Focus, Blake." He whispers to himself as he moves around to the back in lieu of kicking down the front door. "Focus, for _fuck's_ sake."

He's tempted to enter through the broken window, but the shards of glass peering through are inches-long and treacherous. Another window further down is rickety enough to enter once the lock was twisted a certain way -- it had been yet another something or another to be replaced on a failing budget -- and it creaks only a little when he opens it. He hopes with all his might the sound doesn't carry.

It's warmer than usual inside. The windows must have been kept closed to keep the toxin out. He thinks he catches the voice of one of the boys, but it's too muffled to make out. A _thud_ follows, hard enough to make the floorboards tremble above his head. Trevor? But there's no barking. She _always_ barked. What the hell was going on?

He can't smell anything. Not with the mask and scarf still covering his face. But padding silently through the long hallways and past the kitchen he can see exactly what had Joel so terrified over the phone. Photos have been knocked from the walls. Glass crunches under his feet. Chairs are tipped over in the kitchen. It's a goddamn mess. Nothing, however, compares to the sight of _blood_. Little specks peppering the floor and dotting the walls like a macabre breadcrumb trail.

Time slows to a crawl as he goes through the horrid process of figuring out what happened when he suddenly has to stop dead in his tracks.

A stranger in the dining room. They're on the tall side, if a little hunched over. Hefty, muscled, probably a man in their thirties or forties. Blake reaches into his coat for his staff -- if he could hold his own in a fight against Bane, he could take them on, no problem -- and only stills, again, when the faint light catches on the figure and shows him what he's really looking at.

It's not the glittering skin or clawed, grasping fingers that make his blood run cold. No, it's the fact it's _not the same one from the sewers_. Its snout is longer. Its limbs are shorter. It's like something straight out of a nightmare.

' _The fuck?_ ' Blake's chest flutters with shallow breaths. ' _What the hell, that's..._ '

A much louder _thud_ shakes the upper levels again, followed by an obscene _scritch-scratch_ sound. The reptilian creature doesn't even seem to notice, too busy sniffing around for something Blake can't see. Food and silverware scatter along the ground. It keeps pushing past chairs, reaching into shelves, tail dragging behind it to scrape across the old wood. What was it looking for? What was it...

... _Joel_.

His first instinct is to _kill_. But his gut is telling him this situation is already hanging by a thread. Blake nestles the staff beneath one arm and holds his hands out. Maybe, _maybe_ , he can reason with it. The last one talked. Even though he was convinced at the time he was going crazy and imagining things, against all possibility it _spoke_. He had to at least try.

"What the fuck are you doing in my home?"

It turns. Blake's stomach quails at the utterly alien face that peers back at him. Coated in scales with a lipless, glistening mouth filled with teeth that don't seem to fit...

"You need to leave, _now-_ "

It lunges at him.

Instinct kicks into high gear. Blake throws himself to one side and hears it _skid_ past him into kitchen. He whips out his staff and barely manages to twist it to its full length before it's throwing itself at him again. He jabs up, right in the stomach, and sends a powerful shock. He has to use both his hands and feet to roll it off as it jerks and flops like a fish, threatening to crush him with the full force of his weight.

As soon as it started...it's over. Blake kicks the twitching body away and scrambles backwards on the kitchen floor, panting fitfully and trying to catch up to what happened.

The entire time it hadn't made a sound. No hissing, no sound of pain. Certainly not _speaking_. As he catches his breath and regains his bearings he hears the noises above are still going, having not missed a beat even after the fight. Maybe they know he's here now, maybe not. _Fuck_ it. He throws caution to the wind, gets to his feet and bolts through the dining room and up the stairs as fast as he can.

Another one is apparently sniffing at one of the doors. There are claw marks running down the walls, leaving gaping slashes through the wallpaper like a plough in dirt. There's _more_ blood. Blake's eyes analyze the violence easily. There had been a struggle, one of the boys had gotten injured ( _fuck_ ) judging by the hand-shaped smears leading to the door, they're locked in one of the many rooms upstairs...the confusion blisters into white-hot anger.

" _Hey!_ "

Two slitted, yellow eyes turn his way...only to crush shut when Blake rushes forward and slams the business end of his staff right into its face.

Blue sparks light up the dark hallway and scatter shadows up and down the wall. They may not be human, but that doesn't stop thousands of volts working just as intended. It hits the ground with a satisfying _thump_ into the floorboards and jerks for a handful of seconds before stilling. But there's no time to enjoy the victory. Blake turns right when another is barrelling up the stairs on all fours like a charging bull. Right for him. He doesn't have time to charge the staff when they both hit the floor.

' _How many of them are in here?!_ ' He thinks frantically as writhes beneath it, trying to keep his throat from being bitten out with the staff between them like a barrier. ' _How the hell did they even find this place-_ '

It's only the quality of the staff that keeps it from outright snapping beneath the creature's onslaught. It chews and yanks on it, trying to move it away from his face, too rabid to just claw his stomach or bite his hands. He can't pull out his pistol or knife without losing his hold and having those inch-long teeth flay him apart-

He hears the yawning _creak_ of one of the doors.

"Blake...? Dear God, Blake, is that _you?_ "

_Reilly!_

"No, go back inside!" Blake screams over the _snap-snap_ of serrated jaws inches from his face. "Don't come out- _shit_ -just lock the door! Stay _inside!_ "

"Blake's back?!"

"Stay inside, he said don't come out-"

"No, we have to do something!"

The boys' voices flood in and out of his peripheries. The distraction and sudden noise causes the creature to yank back, away from his face. Still gripping the staff with both hands he sits up and turns one end toward it -- sparks of blue flashes uncomfortably close and makes his hair stand on end. It doesn't scream, still unearthly _quiet_ like the others, but it instinctively swipes a massive hand in its pain and hits the staff dead-on. It flips out of his grip and goes over the railing.

"Shit!" Blake curses, trying to scrabble for it uselessly...only to scream when it sinks its teeth into his calf and _drags_ him down the hall.

" _Fuck!_ "

He instinctively claws at the floor, at the mothbitten rug, at the wall, but there's _nothing_ to hold onto-

"Blake, hold on!"

Two hands reach out and grab him. Reilly is gripping him by his wrists, yanking back with all his strength. Already this is a tug-of-war in the monster's favor, one they'd _both_ be on the losing end of. Blake promptly lets go of one hand, the other holding on with all his strength, and twists around to drive his heel into the softest part of the alligator man's face. He knows he hits a sweet spot when it _finally_ lets out a noise (a squishy sensation, a sharp hiss of pain, he must've gotten it in the eye-) and lets go.

Both Reilly and Blake lurch back and slam into the floorboards. He can't use his pistol. He can't risk having it knocked out of his hands or getting his aim compromised and hitting one of the kids. Blake yanks out his bootknife instead and holds it in front of him as it lunges back on top of him. The electricity hasn't stunned it enough, it's snapping at his bloodied leg like it's _starving_ -

"Get off him!" Reilly is behind the creature, trying to yank it back as Blake tries to thrust the knife into its stomach. He hits his target, blood spurts hot and sticky all over his hands, but not soon enough. Not before it flails and swipes at the old Father in an attempt to get him off.

Reilly lets out the worst sound he's ever heard.

White-hot panic has him lunging to his feet and rushing the creature in a tackle to get him as far away from the man as possible. The alligator man stumbles backwards on its bent legs, its back hits the railing with a startling _crack_. Blake doesn't realize they're falling until the ground is suddenly rushing up to meet him.

The coffee table below shatters beneath their weight and they go rolling in opposite directions. It's the only thing that kept him from directly hitting his head and being transformed into a non-threat. Even still, it takes him a few seconds to gain his bearings. He's not alone -- the alligator man is rolling on its side, twitching and scratching at the floor in a semi-stunned state. Its tail _thump-thumps_ on the floor in painful fits.

Blake blinks dizzily on his back as everything comes into messy focus. Finn...? When did he get down here? He's trying to creep inside the living room. The young man knows every hitch in the floorboards -- he's silent as a cat as he inches through the doorway and toward the heavy bookcase, the one stuffed to overflowing near the doorway with generations of literature and warm memories. The one just feet away from the creature.

Blake tries to catch his eye in the faint lighting. He's met with a terrified, yet meaningful look. He doesn't know where his staff _or_ his knife is. Aside from his pistol...

The detective makes his way to his feet, just as the alligator man is becoming alert and terrifyingly so. Its tail has stopped flopping, swaying behind it in a malicious back-and-forth.

"All right. Okay." He says, making sure the creature's attention is on him and _only_ him. It wasn't hard, what with his ankle bleeding and soaking red into the carpet. "You got me."

It looks at his leg, licking its lips with a shining tongue. Just what he needs. Finn shoves the bookcase over with all his strength. There's a deafening _crash_ as hundreds of pounds crush it instantly. The young man hesitates for just a second, then wastes no time making his way over to help him to his feet.

"Blake, Blake, they just _showed up_ out of fucking nowhere-" He stammers, stepping back from the scaled hands and spiked tail peering out beneath the fallen bookcase. "Fuck, fuck...is it dead? Shit-"

" _Language_ , Finn, Jesus Christ, you're going to overflow the swear jar."

"Fuck language!"

Blake laughs and embraces him, tightly, and Finn returns it. The detective immediately reaches out to the blood on his face, but the young man doesn't seem to be injured. The relief doesn't last long. It just means one of the others got hurt.

"Are you okay? You fucking fell..." Finn stammers, looking at his arm, then his leg. "Fuck, it bit you..."

"I'm fine. Don't worry about me. What about the others? Is everyone upstairs?"

"Um, I think. Joel's hiding somewhere, he got scared and we were going to try and find him. Emanuel got Reilly's gun, but he didn't know how to load it, and Amir got bit, right on his arm. We haven't been able to stop the bleeding, we've been calling and _calling_ for a fucking ambulance but nobody's come yet-" Finn is saying in a rush. "I was going to get the car and try and drive us out but I can't fit all of us in there and there's that toxin warning, we were just trying to _hide_ -"

"It's a good thing you stayed inside. Joel called me not a half hour ago." Blake interjects, as confidently as he can. "I'll find him, okay? Just-" He stops when Finn just hugs him again. "Hey, hey-"

"Fuck you, where have you _been_." Finn whispers into his jacket. "We missed you so much."

" _Blake_!" Tiya cries from upstairs. "Blake, Finn, you have to get back up here, Amir's not doing so good..."

They check the alligator man one more time (not so much as a twitch) before rushing back up the stairs. Reilly is clutching his stomach, but he waves Blake off when he tries to check, pointing insistently at the room most of the boys have been hiding in. Judging by the misplaced drawer by the door the boys had tried to barricade themselves inside the room. Nearly everyone is in the room -- he finds out the rest are on the top story and staying on contact with their cellphones. Everyone, that is, except...

"Blake, where's Joel? Where's Trevor?" Jay asks, shaking visibly. He's got a few bruises, a smudge of blood on his face, but is otherwise unharmed. "They ran off. Did you see her?"

Amir's arm is a fucking mess and it's clear by his glazed over eyes he's lost a lot of blood. There's no time to catch up. He has to get them to safety.

"A-Are they gone? Did you kill them?" Tiya breathes as he peers out the door and down the hall. "How did you even find us?"

"Hello, Blake." Amir looks _too_ calm. He's going into shock. "It talked to us."

"What talked?" Blake says, distracted as he tries his best to stem the blood flow with a cotton shirt. "Breathe in and out. Easy now, Amir. You'll be okay." He waves over Jai and Emanuel as he tears it into strips. "Go get the others."

"It...talked." Amir murmurs, looking at him with unfocused eyes. "It talked to us and asked us questions."

"We're not making it up." Tiya says, hastily, as if afraid Amir will look like he's delirious. "One of those things kept saying your name. I heard it, too."

Blake freezes as he reaches for another shirt. Fuck. _Fuck_ , he'd been so distracted with the boys and barely getting out alive that he hadn't even paid attention. He'd seen three of those bizarre creatures, but not a peep of the one he'd encountered all the way back in the storm drains when Bane captured him. He knows, as sure as the blood drying to a sticky crust on his shirt, that it's a detail he'll be sorry for neglecting.

"Speak of the _devil_."

The door handle jiggles, then creaks fully open. The boys huddle away from the hunched shape looming through the doorway. Blake looks up at the scaled face, more human than the others, and the pale green eyes.

"Been looking all over for you." Tufts of white fur stick out of its mouth. White fur... "Should've just done this in the first place."

"Oh, no..." Blake breathes. Finn covers his mouth. Tiya whimpers. Although a few of the boys are holding makeshift weapons, they're _terrified_. The youngest are being kept behind the oldest -- Jai, Emanuel and Finn stand resolutely in the front. Pride and anger mingle in his chest as he stares down the alligator man, who only has eyes for him.

"N-No..." Amir whispers, suddenly coherent and trying to squirm away. "No, _no-_ "

"At least you're slower." The alligator man doesn't even seem to realize anyone else is in the room. "You're coming with me, Blake."

"Good _fucking_ luck with that." Blake snarls, reaching for his pistol. "That was a big fucking mistake attacking my family. You should've stayed in the sewers."

"You sure you want to do that?" He snarls back when the gun is held level with his face. "They only listen to me. _Mostly_. I don't like any of your chances if I'm not around. Especially that old man's."

It hits him. Reilly hasn't spoken the entire time. He's leaning against the wall, one arm frozen over his stomach and head bowed over his chest.

"No, no, you're _fine_. Reilly, just look at me. I'm right here, okay?" Blake raises his voice. "I'm _right_ here."

"That won't work, because you're actually needed somewhere else." His words are punctuated by an omnious shuffle through the hall. Then more faces, just as reptilian and distorted, loom through the cracks between the doorway and the alligator man's spiked shoulders. Blake has no idea where _more_ have come from. But he barely took down three. He couldn't fight two more...no, three more. It would be a gamble. Could he bet everyone's life on it? "After what _you_ pulled you're lucky I don't just eat you and be done with it."

"Look." Blake whispers, the only thought running through his mind to keep Reilly and the boys safe from harm. "Whatever you want from me...I'll go with you, do whatever you want, just...just let me help them."

"Sounds good to me." He has no idea how he manages to talk around so many _teeth_. "Though you really should hurry up...blood gets them a bit excited."

Reilly isn't moving anymore. Blake's entire body feels like ice. Someone starts to cry behind him. Tiya. Fat tears are rolling down his cheeks, even though he's biting on his knuckle to try and stem the flow. The alligator man only just now seems to notice them. He watches them all silently, expression almost impossible to read, and he starts muttering to himself.

"...people going to be here soon...shouldn't get all..." He mutters to himself, then his voice grates when Blake just glares at him. "What the hell are you looking at? Five _minutes_."

His surprise and relief are short-lived. Five...minutes? He can't close Reilly's wounds in five fucking minutes. It's hard to tell through the shredded clothes whether he's been slashed or stabbed. Blake shifts to the side a little, just to test his boundaries, then runs over when the alligator man doesn't stop him. He shoves up his sleeves and talks to him as he tries to make sense of the mess.

"Reilly." He pats the old man's face, briefly, before going back to the sticky wetness coating his front. "Hey. Hey. Stay with me."

"The b-boys...where are..." He doesn't even try to move, though his hand moves away from the wound to start patting the ground beside him, as if looking for something out of reach. It looks _horrible_. "I n-need...they-"

"They're here. You'll be okay. Okay? You're fine." Blake unwraps his scarf and goes for where the bleeding is heaviest, around his stomach and starting to stretch into his side. "Just a flesh wound, right?"

"...the boys, they need to..." Reilly chokes, suddenly, and stops speaking for a moment. He's trying to swallow, but blood seeps out of the corners of his mouth. "...what are you doing, damn it, Blake, _leave me_ , help Amir and Eman..."

"I'll help them. No, hold still, you're worse off. Don't speak. You're fine. You can count on me. You can always count on me. Even though I've made a goddamn mess of...of fucking everything." Blake laughs, shakily, for his benefit...then his voice cracks when the old man doesn't say anything. "...Reilly, come on. You're not going to let this do you in. You've got this. You'll be _okay_."

He's not okay. He shouldn't be bleeding this much from a scratch. The alligator men are agitated. They keep shifting in the doorway and watching Reilly with this visible... _hunger_ , like stray dogs leering around a dying cat. Blake would go down fighting, he'd kill every single last one with his bare _hands_ if he had to, but he was outnumbered and his boys were hurt.

He can't go off his gut instinct. He has no time and no options. He has to go. Like putting on an old, worn pair of jeans Blake slips into his mask. A determined set to his jaw and a dry little smile that doesn't show the utter terror he feels for everyone in this room. His boys didn't need to see death in his eyes. They needed their big brother.

"Never...never said 'I love you' enough." Reilly says, grip slippery as he finds his hand and holds on. "I made...I made too many _excuses_ , Blake, damn it all..."

Blake shakes his head and pulls off his mask to give him a big, glowing grin.

"Come on, Reilly. You know I've got you beat in that department."

"Your time's up." An irritated _hiss_. "Get over here."

"Take care of him. Make sure the bandages hold and get him some water. Wear the mask when you go outside." He says in a rush as he hands both his mask and phone to Finn. He wasn't going to need it in the next few hours, anyway. "Call Barsad and Harleen. Tell them I sent you." The Acres crew were tied up and the League would be exiting the city any minute, if Barbara did her job right. But maybe, just _maybe_...

"I...I'll do my best." Finn whispers, tears running rivers through the smear of blood on his face. "Just...come back."

"I can't promise anything." Blake finishes with a weak smile. "Shitty birthday present. I know."

The detective wipes his hands off as best he can, then limps after the alligator men away from Reilly, his boys and St. Swithin's. Through the chaos of blaring alarms and crashed cars. They would no doubt make quite a sight if the city wasn't collapsing in on itself all over again. The toxin swirls unimpeded in the air, invisible except for the fear and passion he can almost taste.

That is, until he goes underground where everything dissolves into a numbing, dark silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, there's the _other_ side to the equation where I'll give a chapter a little extra time to stew. Sometimes I come up with things that wouldn't have made it in had I uploaded too soon (sometimes minor details, sometimes plot-related). 
> 
> Happy balance isn't easy to hit, but once it does...
> 
> _*kisses fingers and tries not to cry*_


	57. Scratch The Surface

"Stupid, selfish, lazy _bitch_. Should've just rattled the orphanage in the _first_ place. Swimming for God knows how long in shit water, no _trails_ , not a single one, couldn't take another minute with that stuffy, arrogant little turd..." A wheezing, furious _hiss_ that bounces off the claustrophobic stone walls. "Stupid, shitty, wild goose chase..."

Blake has been listening to this for hours. Out of all the last things he'd like to hear before he dies, the malicious rambling of a terrifying nightmare creature was _very_ low on the list.

He's been doing his best to take stock of his shrinking options, which wasn't easy when he was exhausted, half-crazy and surrounded by no less than _four_ sewer monsters. His pistol had been taken, his bootknife was still in the stomach of the alligator man crushed beneath that bookcase _and_ his head had yet to stop clamoring with Crane's bullshit. On the plus side his ankle was no longer bleeding, having clotted up rather early on. Neither a sprain or a broken bone, as far as he could tell, and he counts his lucky stars with more fervor than usual.

That...and he still had his staff.

The other creatures didn't talk (not even _once_ , yet another strange detail on the pile), so they didn't tell their leader about how Blake had knocked out two of their peers without firing a single bullet. The piece of shit hadn't even bothered threatening him since marching him away from St. Swithin's. He probably thinks Blake beaten. Quailing with dread. Sadly for him, he's never been very good at being a meek little prisoner.

For all the times Blake has been kept under lock and key, confinement was something he would never truly get used to. Bane could attest to that. Hell, he'd been visibly impressed at this simple fact, from the very first time Blake met him and tried to fight him _head-on_ (ridiculous, in retrospect) to when he showed up out of the blue in the city hall with a list of demands and a loaded pistol. Back then Blake had assumed it was because a rebellious prisoner was more entertaining than a demoralized one. Now a part of him wonders if that borderline delight at his behavior was due to his upbringing.

He has to urge these thoughts of the masked man away and, with them, the hot ache that threatens to upend the almost... _poetic_ irony of his situation. The detective pretends to scratch an itch, instead reassuring himself of the high-tech pole nestled in his inner-coat pocket. It was a losing battle, but one he'd fight to his last breath...

A low _beep_ makes him pause.

"Here." Another voice drifts through the dark, crackling with static and unrecognizable. "...Wait, what...? What the hell are you saying? She told me to bring him straight to _her_. You're not the one who could literally blow up, here." A sharp _slap_. He's hit his tail against the ground in frustration. "If she gets mad it's on _you_. You know that, right? Surely you know that much."

Blake is listening so intently he nearly falls when his foot hits something slimy. He claws at the wall to keep himself from doubling over, then listens as best he can for a name or a voice or some other clue.

" _Fine._ We'll go around. Just wait a little longer."

The alligator man glances over his shoulder at him as they leave one tunnel to another. His left eye always squints more than the other -- a souvenir from the rock Blake had thrust in his face when he tried to drag Salim, then _him_ , underwater. It's a potential weakness, but not _quite_ enough now that he's surrendered the element of surprise. Damn his curiosity.

Well, it was a trump card he would have to wait out for a little longer. Even Finn had recognized this universal truth back when the orphanage was under seige and the only fighting experience he had under his belt were scraps with the neighborhood bullies. God, Blake remembers when the kid (no, no, he's a young man now, damn-) had been terrified at a pair of two-bit muggers. Months later he would take down something straight out of the Black Lagoon.

Blake was _so_ proud of him. He just wishes he had more time to tell him that. To tell...all of them.

The creature must note something in his expression or posture, because he proceeds to address him for the first time since they've gone underground.

"...Bane isn't here to save you _this_ time, so don't get cute and try to hold out for a rescue that'll never come. I've wasted enough time as it is."

"Must be a pretty big relief for you..." Blake responds. "...since he's not here to kick _your_ ass, either."

"Please. He caught me by surprise." Well. Make that _three_ who recognize the universal wisdom, then. "Just like you, huh?"

"Just like me?" Blake barks a laugh and doesn't budge. "Ha! Pretty sure I lasted longer than three seconds _and_ didn't try to run away with my tail between my _legs_." The insult clearly hits home. The other alligator men shift restlessly as they sense the ugly shift in the air. "You think I forgot about our little skirmish? You skulk around in the shadows, do whatever it is you do on your spare time, but you're really not all _that. I wouldn't even come up with a local folktale for you._ "

The detective stares into the swell of black at the two green circles staring furiously at him, glinting like a cat in headlights.

"...Do you think they'll want you with all your limbs?" The alligator man asks. " _All_ your fingers?"

Blake starts to speak...then thinks better of it.

"That's what I _thought_." He turns around. " _Hurry up_."

What feels like _another_ three hours of crawling and shuffling through low tunnels and across thin bridges (the alligator men eerily silent all the while) and they reach a large, open space. To think, Blake finds himself _missing_ the cell the League kept him in all that time back. At least he got a fire and some food going. It's been taking all his effort not just to stay standing on increasingly tired legs, but to not outright dunk his head into that gross water.

 _God_ , he hated being so thirsty...

"Wait here." Comes the gruff command. "If you run off I'll send one of them to collect you."

The other creatures push past him with sudden interest. Blake stands to his fullest height and works out the crooks building in his neck as he takes note of his surroundings (and tries to ignore the condensation dripping into his hair). It looks...like a hastily furbished living abode. Not unlike the impromptu homeless camps strewn across the city. There are blankets (clearly moldy, even with his freezing nose, and pretty shredded). Tipped-over buckets. Wet cardboard boxes filled with items he can't parse out. Random items that are likely stolen, like shoes and toys and...coats.

Blake's skin crawls. He doesn't like the implications at _all_.

One of the creatures is reaching into the pile of boxes and digging around. It holds up...a newspaper? A magazine? It's hard to tell what it wants with paper that's clearly ruined and stuck together, but whatever it is has their head honcho irritated.

"No, put it away." He growls. "I said put it _away_. We can do that later." A lower growl. "...Fine. We'll be here for a few minutes, anyway. But I'm not reading."

Blake's skin shivers again, though this time with something more awkward. _Wrong._ He's talking to them like they're rowdy children that can't be expected to behave. The creature in question (more hunched than the others, with a knobbled back coated in spines) obeys quietly and settles into the weak light drifting from the grate guard above. It flips through the pages and pokes at the pictures with curved, glinting claws. Another one goes up to that mangled teddy bear and starts to nuzzle its nose in its fluffy innards, picking idly at the fluff that falls out. Yet another one takes the opportunity to nap.

It's easily more eerie than outright being attacked. Blake wants to think he's currently surrounded by the leftover belongings of victims dragged to their deaths. Hell, it's hard not to think of Tom and his untimely demise washed up near the storm drains. It had been a death by drowning, but the mere idea he could've ended up the lunch of these alligator men...it makes him suddenly sick to his stomach, but it's been too long in-between meals for him to have anything left to lose.

The more minutes tick by, the more he doesn't think this is the case...and he can't figure out for the life of him _why_. The clues are all there. Human evidence tossed around like forgotten trophies, but his brain and gut are all but howling at each other like feral cats.

Blake turns to their leader to ask one of a thousand questions...

...only for that strange déjà vu to come back full force. That's it. That's _it._ That _itch_ that clawed at the back of his mind whenever he thought about the alligator man or looked at his face, some corner of his mind desperately trying to connect the dots and, inevitably, floating the details to the bottom of the pool out of necessity.

"Wait. Wait, I know you." Blake breathes. "You're _Waylon Jones_."

The ridges on the alligator man's back twitch.

"You've been missing for...for two years. The facility you were at got shut down for illegal experiments, they were being covered up for over a decade, it showed up on the _news_ a few months back..." It comes out in a stuttery, jumbled rush, his mind making connections faster than his mouth can work. "How did this happen, what the hell even-"

"Shut up." Comes a shakier, _smaller_ , hiss. "For the love of God, shut _up_ already."

"You have a _family-_ "

"I said _shut up!_ " The glisten of teeth across the poorly-lit room, not quite far enough. "You really have a death wish, don't you?"

"Death wish? You attacked my kids! You killed my fucking _dog_. You have me hostage." Blake is seriously pushing his limits. He's more than a little sure it's because he's actually gone crazy. "I deserve to know. I deserve some goddamn _answers_ before I kick the bucket, huh?"

"You don't deserve shit. Besides, I didn't kill your dog." Waylon's anger has shrunk down to a sullen sneer. "She bit me and ran off somewhere."

"What?"

"She bit me and ran off with some _kid_." _Now_ he snaps. "Are you _slow?_ "

' _She must've stayed with Joel_ '. Blake thinks, unable to keep a relieved smile from his face. ' _Good dog_.' "Fantastic. Then let's move onto some other questions, like why did you attack us all those months back? Why have you been following me around everywhere? What the _hell_ do you want from me?"

"Gee, a bunch of armed soldiers just move into my home and I'm supposed to stay quiet about it?" He talks to him like he just won an honorary mention at the World's Biggest Moron convention. "Bane hit you in the head too many times?"

"Staying quiet was the problem, don't you think?" Blake retorts, ignoring the jibe. "You could've said _something_ other than trying to drown people. Instead you led me and a bunch of others into a trap that nearly got us all killed."

"The last time I tried to talk to someone they tried to _shoot_ me. I wasn't about to take my chances with armed invaders. They can't..." He starts, with a glance at the others, then cuts himself abruptly. Blake looks at the other creatures filling the space in hunched shadows. Like lumps of drying clay they're misshapen, grotesque, creature and human blending together uneasily. He wonders if the fact Waylon can speak also has anything to do with how much more... _cohesive_ he looks.

' _What the hell are you?_ ', his brain asks. His gut, on the other hand...

"...Where did you come from?"

"Wouldn't _you_ like to know."

" _Blackgate._ " Comes a rasp from one of the others, so startling Blake actually looks over his shoulder to make sure he's not hallucinating. The one with yellow eyes that had cut open Reilly, hunched over the ruined magazine and trying to peel the pages back apart with no success. " _Blackgate, Blackgate, Black..._ "

"Shh!" The alligator man hisses, but it's already out in the open, dirtier than even the filthy water not feet away. Blackgate. An old state penitentiary that didn't live up to its motto to protect the city. Hell, it probably never did. Just like Arkham, just like the Department, it was another drop in the ocean for Gotham. Ruining lives one vote, one mandate at a time. The news had tried to make Bane look like the bad guy for blasting it open, only to quietly mention the scientific conspiracies weeks after the fact on channels most people ignored.

Waylon Jones, Pamela Isley, so _many_ others that had been deemed missing...and this is where they've been, literally under their noses.

"Are there...more like you?" He chooses his words carefully. His captor was volatile and seemed to have a very tenuous grip on his changing moods. "Like...them?"

"You think I have any idea? Once I left I didn't look back. It was hard enough taking a few with me. There _was_ a woman who could talk to plants, though. Killed her regular doctor by kissing him." This makes Waylon laugh, though like nearly everything else about him, it comes out unpleasant. "She was more venomous than a _snake_."

That had to be Pamela. She'd mentioned something of the sort all the way back at the Plant Factory. " _It happens when the city uses you and throws you away like your life means nothing_.", she'd said in response to his questions, and Blake never could've guessed _this_ would be the way he found out the details to that untold story.

"Pamela Isley?" Blake hedges. Waylon's brows, sloped heavy over his eyes, raise.

"So you know about her. Is she growing roots yet?" Another broken, hissing laugh. "Thorns, maybe?"

"Uh, no. At least, not from what I saw. The most wild thing about her was her hair color."

"Well, isn't she _lucky_." He mutters. The other alligator men continue their business and pay them little mind, shuffling back and forth through an unsettling balance between animal instinct and higher thought. The one by the teddy bear is gnawing on its arm, only to look visibly startled when it comes off. "Another year or two and they'll have nothing human left."

"It gets worse over time?" Blake's throat grows thick, watching as the creature tries, and fails, to put the arm back on the bear.

"...I didn't always have this tail."

"I'm...sorry." He is. As much as he wants to shove his staff down the man's mouth and shock his heart into stopping after what he did to the orphanage, this was fucked up. It's still the wrong thing to say. Waylon's face is suddenly right up to his and he can almost _taste_ the blood on his breath.

"Oh, you're sorry? Well, I could've used that _sorry_ a few years ago, huh? Instead you lived your pretty little life none the wiser about what people like her and I and them were going through, just like everyone else in this filthy, ugly, _disgusting_ city. Gotham doctors stuck with me needles, shoved me away in a dozen different cages and none of you felt sorry when I _needed_ it. Your sorry is bullshit."

"But...why? Why would they _do_ all this?"

"Why? You have the gall to ask _why_ , as if it matters?"

Blake looks back at the others, heart sinking all the way to his stomach.

"Yes, yes, eat your heart out." Waylon sneers. "I would eat your heart out, if I could get away with it." Anger heats him up. He was _trying_ to reach out, figure out something more peaceful than an inevitable fight, but every single question or gesture is thrown back in his face with extra spite.

"You have _no_ idea what I've been through." Blake growls back. "You think you're the only one suffering here? Seriously? That's a pretty narrow perspective to have in Gotham, of all places."

"Suffering. I could clue you in to suffering. They haven't eaten in a while."

"Is it worth pissing off your boss?" ' _Come on._ ' Blake thinks. ' _Give me something to work with before I get there or you lose your temper. If I could just get to the bottom of this..._ '

Waylon looks him up-and-down, as if seriously _considering_ it. Blake lifts his chin and holds his gaze, trying not to think about how _easily_ they'd torn Reilly open like he was made out of paper. Amir's shredded arm, the blood splattered all over St. Swithin's gray walls. Just when he thinks the alligator man's about to follow through with his promise to relieve him of a limb or two he hunches away, taking that horrible stench of sour blood and saliva with him.

"...Time to go." The alligator men leave their mess where it is, though they look almost disappointed. "Let's see how well you swim."

They leave that horrid not-quite-home and return to the same cramped, dark passageways. When he reaches the end of the tunnel and feels open air again it's hard not to be relieved, though his ears tell him there's nothing but water below. Waylon tells him this is their last crossing.

"Cross...what?" Blake asks, only getting a snort in return. One of the other alligator men hunches up to him and hisses with an almost cheerful insistency.

" _Blackgate._ " It says, just like before. " _Blackgate._ "

Blake leans away as best he can surrounded by the others.

"Uh, Blake. Nice to meet you, though."

" _...Blakegate._ " It concludes with a crooked grin. Blake manages a nervous smile.

The sewer systems have limits. Limits that _clearly_ didn't take alligator-human hybrids in mind. One-by-one each the others slide past him out of the tunnel into the black, moving with animalistic ease.

"I'm not carrying you." Waylon says as he drops from their perch with the grace of a diver. "Hurry _up_."

' _With any luck I'll catch an unnamed disease and die before they take me to whoever wants me in mostly one piece._ ' Blake thinks, moving as fast as he can in the freezing water before numbness sets in. The League members, Bane included, always ribbed him about his swimming prowess. They'd probably have a few clever jibes about his show now.

" _Live up to your title, Hothead._ ", Barsad might say. " _Never settle for less._ "

" _Crocodile Hunter, what's taking you so long?_ " He can hear Salim's playful chirp. " _You can take them._ "

" _A Gotham chill is nothing._ " Bane might laugh, always louder with his eyes than his voice. " _For you, at least._ "

These thoughts would be funny if they weren't so sobering. God, he hopes Bane's okay. At least one of them _has_ to be after all this.

Blake is trying his best to hold up against the rush, the water _just_ slow enough not to bowl him over but still fast enough to have him anticipating his own anti-climax. He's an agonizing mixture of freezing _and_ burning, panting for air and trying not to keep as much out of his mouth as possible as he follows the alligator men far more sluggishly. He's so slow that one actually halts its progress to wait for him. The one that talked to him. In fact, it lingers so close that he gets the distinct impression it wants to _carry_ him.

"Blakegate." It says, matter-of-factly, and nudges him with one bulky shoulder. He can just make out its glittery hide in the dark. A ride doesn't sound so bad. He's numb to his very core, but he can feel the bone-weary ache just past the surface and all he wants is a break. Waylon will have none of it, though, and calls out for it to leave him and hurry up. It obeys, with palpable reluctance, and soon Blake is bobbing alone in the water once more.

It's slow going. He has to stop a few times to float and catch his breath, with little visuals to tell him his progress. By the time he's nearing where the others have gathered he's almost feeling good about his progress, until his leg hits something heavy and cuts his ankle open again. It's only the biting temperature that keeps the pain at bay.

" _F-Fuck_. T-Tell your boss to pick a b-better hideout next time." Blake stutters, flexing his leg to remind himself it's still attached. "H-He's not g-getting points for originality."

"Who said his hideout was in the storm drains?" Waylon calls back, voice barely echoing. There are scraping noises. They must be on land.

"T-To be fair, you d-didn't say m-much-"

He's suddenly yanked down. He barely remembers to hold his breath before everything goes as black and silent as death. Something bumps him, heavy, and something else is digging into his leg with purpose, he doesn't have enough air in his lungs for the next few seconds-

"-back! Get _back!_ "

...Blake suddenly resurfaces with a hoarse gasp. One of them grabbed him and tried to pull him _under_. It doesn't even click until he hears Waylon somewhere over the sound of splashing.

"No, get back! _Stop_." The alligator man is snarling from somewhere beyond. He can barely see any of them, but he can feel the increased activity in the water. "Stop!"

"Wh-what the hell?" Blake tries to speak around his chattering teeth. It's becoming harder and harder to move, he's so _cold_. "Wh-what the hell are th-they doing?!"

"I told you, they haven't eaten in a while. They should be fine, there's no prey around here, no blood, no fish..." He pauses. "Wait. Wait, are you _bleeding?_ "

Bleeding? No. Somehow he'd come out relatively unscathed back at the orphanage, even though he should've ended up with half an arm or something worse considering what he was up against. That was...except for his ankle. Right, it'd closed up along the way, but then it'd caught on something in the water...

"Sh-Shit." Blake whispers. " _Shit._ "

"You idiot! Why didn't you tell me you were injured?"

"The w-wound closed up, I d-didn't realize it w-would start bleeding-" He tries to explain, still trying not to get water in his mouth, which is getting harder the more it dips and sways-

The others are bobbing up and down, yellow eyes glinting mere feet away like searchlights, every last gaze focused on _him_. Despite everything that's happened in the past few hours alone, Blake has never felt his mortality more acutely than he does now. He's been threatened at knifepoint, kidnapped, _shot_ , but there's a primal fear that accompanies death by being eaten alive.

The eyes dip below into the black and vanish.

"Swim. Swim, get out of the water." An actual note of _fear_ enters the alligator man's voice. "Get out _now_!"

It's not as far as he thought, his fingers grazing solid ground with just a few strokes, but he's panicking. The stone wasn't made for human hands. It's slippery and scummy and he has to scramble like an _animal_ to haul his weight up and over, just _barely_ out of the way of snapping teeth that rise out and narrowly miss him. They're working themselves up into a frenzy and, by the sound of splashing and vocal attempts at soothing them down, it's _all_ Waylon can do to hold them off.

...but he's outnumbered. They're feral now, there's just him and Waylon and a bunch of creatures that want him dead. Blake reaches into his coat and fumbles for his staff. It could work, but he has to get as far away from the water as possible.

Waylon has hauled himself onto the stone. His breathing is labored. He's wounded, definitely, and the others are starting to follow.

Blake shoves the staff in the water and cranks it up to its highest voltage.

The only way he can tell the electricity works is that everything goes...quiet. No more splashing, but also no screams of pain or clawed, crooked hands reaching out of the water to pull him to his death. Just a sudden, unsettling stillness that spreads throughout the narrow space like a cloak.

Maybe they're still alive. It's a stupid thought and that's _before_ he reaches out over the concrete ledge to touch one of the scaly bodies that's floated up to the surface. It's the one with the bumpy back, the one that tried to speak to him, then carry him...now limp as a hunk of soggy paper. Even if they survived the voltage, they would have likely drowned before they woke up.

He's shaking so hard he drops his staff into the water. He doesn't even try to retrieve it, instead moving back and back and back until he hits the far wall.

Waylon is just...staring at them. It's too dark to make out his face, but Blake doesn't need to. The detective clutches his hair and tries to remember how to breathe. He has more blood on his hands than he thinks he can take.

" _How do you do it, Bane? How the **fuck** do you do it?_ " Every gulp of cold, fresh air feels like a punch to the gut. " _I don't know if I'll ever be able to sleep again._ "

"I should kill you." Waylon says it all slow and pondering, like nothing has really settled in yet. "I should _kill_ you."

But he doesn't. He wants to, Blake can _feel_ the grief and hatred in the air, as tangible as the wet clothes clinging to his body, but he doesn't. Fully without weapons and at his mercy, Waylon merely grabs him by his arm and drags him after.

Blake follows, numb and without complaint.

After no time at all they emerge outside and Blake can actually _see_ the toxin in the air. It's too murky to make out exactly where he is, but judging by how _clean_ the ground is it must be somewhere up north. Near Gotham Heights, maybe. It almost feels good to be among civilization again, even if it's to the beat of everyone's upcoming demise. With no people around Waylon doesn't bother trying to hide as he takes Blake into a small building. His ankle leaves spots of blood as they climb a stairwell all the way to the top floor and enter a room.

The first thing he notices are the _massive_ ventilation fans set up around the cramped space -- three total, far taller than him and facing the windows out toward the city. The wires bleeding out behind him coil together and wrap around the small room to a generator. It must've taken weeks to put together. Blake cringes when he hears whispers filtering from the left, from the right, as faint as a breeze -- there's toxin in here, but somehow it seems...cooled. Lesser. This conundrum delays him from noticing the most important thing by far.

Jonathan Crane is standing in front of one of the fans, inspecting it with one hand and holding a notepad in the other.

"...About time." He barely even glances at them. "Tie him up."

"Waylon." Blake starts as his hands are forcibly tied with a thick, metal chain. "You're putting the entire city in danger by doing this." His voice sharpens. "Waylon, _please._ "

Crane smiles indulgently and rests a hand on the man's scaly shoulder. Waylon flinches, but he doesn't pull away. Blake can see as clearly as day that this is a partnership built on fear.

"Call him the 'Killer Croc'. Waylon Jones is a name better suited for someone less...well." The psychologist pats him in a gesture so condescending Blake can't help but feel utterly disgusted on his behalf. " _This_."

Blake nods at the now-healed gash on his nose.

"Nice scar."

"Not as nice as yours." Crane wrinkles his nose sardonically. "Oh, there's no need to play innocent. I know you've been living with my toxin all this time. I can recognize the telltale signs a mile away. It _is_ my job, after all." He pulls out a water bottle, full and glistening, and twitches it. "...Thirsty?"

Blake swallows slowly and says nothing, though he can no more easily take his eyes off it than stitch up his ankle with his mind.

"You'll get some for good behavior." Crane pulls up a chair and sets it a foot away from him. "We're overdue a conversation, you and I."

Waylon shoves him to the ground and retreats to a corner of the room.

"So. What are you afraid of, John Blake?" He crosses his legs and pulls out a clipboard. An honest-to-God _clipboard_. Playing counselor even as he has him trussed up like a delivered package. "Spiders? Needles, maybe? I used to be afraid of the latter myself when I was a kid. Nasty little things."

"Go _fuck_ yourself."

"Noted. Why don't we start with the basics, then." Crane promptly starts flipping through the papers. Judging by the scroll of his eyes they're more than just for show. "Lost your mother to a car accident when you were just seven years-old. Killed instantly. She didn't even have the dignity of a final few words in a hospital bed. We really put too much stock into television dramas, don't we?"

"The fuck is wrong with you...?" Blake spits, twisting in his bonds with bloodthirsty rage. "You heartless mother _fucker._ "

"Then your father to homicide a few years later?" He talks over him, still _tut-tutting_ like some bastard hybrid between mass murderer and condescending grade-school teacher. "A gambling debt he couldn't pay off to one of the plethora of two-bit gangs infesting this city like rats in the sewer. A potential connection to the Sabatino family, by the looks of it. Hmph. Old money, at least, but stuffed up. No wonder the killer was never caught." He purses his lips in a show of sympathy. "You must have searched for _years_."

For the first time in Blake's life he thinks he'd enjoy killing someone. The _rustle_ of papers feels like nails beneath his skin.

"Then your grandmother, let's see...oh, dear. Succumbed to heart disease while you were still at the Gotham Family Orphanage? That must have been the final blow. Third time's the charm, as the saying goes. Then you...oh. Oh, _no_." Crane slowly covers his mouth and looks over his board.

Whatever he's going to say he's not going to let it get to him. He _can't_ let this get to him. Blake has been ground under the heel of too many assholes over the course of his life to let this man _get_ to him.

"...you killed a _child?_ "

Blake goes numb all over again.

"How do you..." He starts. Closes his mouth to swallow, hard, then tries to speak again. "How the hell..."

"Please. As if information is all that difficult to get in Gotham. You're _all_ she ever talks about. 'John Blake', this. 'John Blake', that." The smooth sneer hitches. Becomes almost petulant, even as he's bobbing his foot a little in a scholarly pantomime. "Even I was about to be driven crazy by her incessant _bitching_. It certainly doesn't take a genius to know it has something to do with Bane. Whatever you did must be quite the tale. Right up with all the other glorious things you've pulled."

The alligator man shifts from where he huddles near the shadows.

"Oh, John Robin Blake...what so many psychologists wouldn't _give_ to have you as their case study." Crane peers over his silver glasses like he's about to dive into a full-course meal. "The quintessential Gotham tragedy."

The twisted psychologist starts to write something down, only to pause a moment later.

"...Ooh. Isn't _that_ a scary look." He looks back to his papers with a knowing quirk to his mouth. "You could give Batman a run for his money."

He sticks the pen behind his ear and claps his hands together.

"Well! After compiling everything we've learned this evening it seems what you're most afraid of is losing those you love. Likely the most significant factor after a low sense of self-worth and a pathological need to avoid your true self. Mental health suggests a probability of unchallenged grief and on-again, off-again bouts with depression. No personality disorder, as far as I can see, and phobias have yet to be determined. Mm. Basic fears, a little trite, but certainly easy to work with."

"Gotham has been through worse than you." Blake hisses, even though he's trying to convince himself more than anything. "Gotham will go through _worse_ than you."

"No, I don't think it will. I'm afraid you still don't understand what you're dealing with here." Crane says. "My toxin is neverending. It will linger in the subconscious, as subtle as a loose thread in a tapestry. The more it's pulled...the more it unravels." He gestures to his fans. "Fear toxin in Old Gotham and The Bowery. Obsession toxin in East End. Trauma toxin in Gotham Heights and The Narrows. That's just the start."

Is that why he didn't react so strongly? Because he'd already been exposed? Crane continues to speak, gloating more with every word.

"How will it affect people's children, I wonder? Will my work manifest as painful delusions that impact day-to-day life or will it instead live on in the subtle, unavoidable madness of progeny? A moment with my mark fifty years later harbored in the innocent mind of a child. A kernel of potential. A beautiful woman with a bright future ahead of her, maybe, or a young man with a vibrant imagination. It will tickle, this thread. Unravel forever. My work will live on _forever_."

Bane had said Gotham was a constant victim of its own circumstance. He was yet to be proven wrong. Blake feels the pull of hopelessness harder than his own gravity. There's nothing to stop Crane from hurting his city. Gotham may have survived some impressive horror stories, it might survive many more, but it would never be free.

"Will you have children, Blake?" The man frowns, as if stunned by his own conclusion. "Will you spread your madness as you spread your _seed?_ "

' _Well._ ' Blake thinks as Crane pulls out what could only be more toxin. A small metal ball, the same one he and Harleen had collaborated to find. ' _Bane, we left on a pretty shitty note. I hope you remember me fondly._ '

"Though...there could be even more to look forward to after I turn these last fans on." A maniacal glint flashes in his eyes. "Have you noticed anything strange about your hallucinations? Anything...uncanny?

The only thing that seemed uncanny was how real they felt. He opens his mouth to say _no_ , maybe deliver another colorful threat to get under his skin...then he remembers. Talking with Bane over the phone. Sharing with him that dream he had, the one right before he woke up somewhere in East End. Less like a dream and more like a memory.

Talia had been in it, a harmless little girl with a sister named Mari. Bane had been there, just without the mask and under another name, and he had idly mentioned an ex-wife by the name of Lael. Things that ended up being real...and things Bane had _never_ told him about. Blake's cognitive functions aren't _that_ scrambled. The masked man shared some parts of his past with him, but kept other details under lock and key. They'd both tried to reason with this coincidence, but ended up brushing it to the side out of necessity. Now he has no choice but to face the utter _strangeness_ of it all.

The detective is jerked out of his thoughts when Crane suddenly grabs his shoulders and shakes him gleefully.

" _Yes!_ Yes, yes, there it is. There it _is_. What did you see? Tell me everything." He stops, but only just, still gripping his arms so hard it's starting to hurt. "Oh, come on, Blake, don't you see? You could be a confirmation of something greater. Something _better_." His voice becomes soothing. Simperingly sweet. "Did you see your mother? Your grandmother, hm?"

He'd mentioned seeing dead family last time, when he'd been in the process of beating him to within an inch of his life, and it's only the questions swirling in his mind that keep him from spitting right in his eyes. What the hell is Crane implying?

"I mean, you can make it easier on both of us and _tell_ me...or I can give you another taste of what you're clearly missing." He reaches into his coat and pulls out that ugly mask with the stitched-up mouth.

"Death or exile, huh, jackass?" Blake hisses. "Don't I at least get a phone call?"

Crane smiles and twists the metal ball in both hands, sending blue smoke billowing out around them.

"Here's hoping you talk in your sleep."

Blake holds his breath as long as he can. He tries to twist away. He even _bites_ him when he moves the draft closer to his face (earning a sharp blow to the face that makes his head ring), but it's no use. The room seems to melt. His limbs turn loose, floaty, like he's been dipped into a warm bath and allowed to drift...

...and it's not _so_ bad...

_...not so bad at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo is here already?! Time to upload a bunch of chapters before devoting this month to original work.


	58. My Name Is John

"...no, we actually met at a bar. I know, I _know_ , stop. Come on, guys. It's true. Even though it sounds like something out of a movie." He follows up that statement as quick as he can, but laughter is already rolling in. "Something directed by Weiss, right?"

Robin temporarily breaks free of his reflection to grin at the smiling faces just over his shoulder. It was nice of Barbara and Shia to stick around, even if they were _technically_ breaking a bunch of old-fashioned rules in the process. He didn't show nerves easily, but close friends had a way of looking beyond the surface. With a few of their relatives rounding out the bachelor crowd, it was enough to distract from the tightness that's settled in his chest all day.

"So if it's like a movie, when are you having kids, then?" Barbara catches herself with characteristic swiftness, an embarrassed hand over her mouth. " _More_ kids, anyway. Actual babies."

He doesn't usually like being ribbed like this, especially before a big event ( _the_ big event, dear Lord-), but he shrugs it off.

"I'll figure it out after a few slices of cake." He runs another hand through his hair. It's not a bad coif, all things considered. "And a few shots."

"If you _did_ have a baby...what names do you have in mind?" Barbara shushes the hubbub that rises. "Come _on_ , it's an honest question!"

"I'm supposed to know what I'll name the kids I probably won't have?" He checks the mirror one last time. He _knew_ he wasn't imagining that speck of dirt. "Uh, Joel, maybe. For a boy."

"What about a girl?" Shia's sister pipes up. He's actually impressed with how fast he answers this time.

"Selina."

"You don't plan on having babies but those came _pretty_ quick." Cassandra teases. She and Barbara were two peas in a pod when it came to giving him a hard time.

"Come on, tell us again. Just for old time's sake." Shia eggs. Everyone suddenly stops hounding him and sits prettily to attention. They heard this story over Christmas dinner last year, but even if he _were_ to recite it word-for-word it would take on a whole different feel today. Robin assesses the stern cut of his suit, the creamy color that barely stands out against his skin, and takes in a _long_ breath before starting.

"...I was getting drunk after a trial. Behnam said hi. The end."

Robin cups his hand behind one ear and soaks in the disappointed " _Aww!_ "s, then continues.

"... _then_ we went out on a date. It was my first date in years, if we're being honest, and I kind of went overboard trying to pay for everything, even as he tried to give me a literal run for my money. We went to an arcade, wrapped up with dinner and a dance, went back to my hotel." He shrugs. "Just like a movie."

"Aw. I bet he was real _cute._ " Shia pokes, waggling her brows.

"No, I took him to my hotel because I thought he was _hideous_." He responds blandly. "Of course he was...then he showed me a video of his side hustle as a cage fighter." He chuckles. "Then he got even cuter."

That's right. He'd asked him about his mask, a genuine curiosity tinged by something more...uneasy, and had gotten a rather hilarious answer in return. The poor man had looked kind of nervous at his reaction, really, and it had been one of a plethora of social missteps Robin would gradually correct over that fateful evening.

Everything starts getting a little fuzzy in-between his rehash of Behnam's surprisingly good dance skills and his careful omittance of their _enthusiastic_ return to the hotel room. At first he brushes it off as the strain of the day -- of _course_ he's exhausted, he's been double-checking the guest list and the dinner spread and his suit and his hair for literal _hours_ \-- but this weariness soon has him swaying in place. Enough to catch everyone's attention and tip the warm, familial mood upside-down.

"Woah, Robin?" Cassandra bundles her dress in one arm and walks over to him, the others getting to their feet with mirrored expressions of concern. "Are you okay?"

"I'm..." He starts, not realizing he's leaning against the wall until he looks up and sees everything slanted at an angle. "...I think I just need some fresh air."

Fresh air won't cure how suddenly _wrong_ he feels, he knows it already, but it's probably best to keep that little tidbit to himself.

The womens' perfume is snatched away by the breeze the second they leave the back room. There are glass windchimes dangling from tree branches, their high voices contrasting beautifully with the low hubbub. Twinkling light strings that aren't yet turned on, white as far as the eye can see, laughter on the breeze clipping over a thousand voices. It's like something out of a fairytale.

"It's _beautiful._ " Barbara breathes as the day swirls around them in a whirl of color and sound. "I already can't wait to see the pictures."

Robin turns and flees.

"Robin? _Robin!_ "

There are _hundreds_ of people, a point of pride now turned into a potential embarrassing moment waiting for the wrong second to reveal itself. Robin slips past the decorative tables and ducks beneath billowing tarps to where the field spreads out. He needs more than fresh air, he needs _something_ , but he has no idea what it is.

A stroke of luck has him finding his grandmother, sitting in the sleepy afternoon sun beneath one of the trees with a book in her lap. He's pretty sure the run has messed his hair up by now, but he's so out of it all he can do is stare helplessly at her when he approaches.

"...What are you doing here? You should be with your fiance." She chuckles and shakes her head. " _Husband_ , sorry. Gracious me."

"...Bobeshi." Her face goes from tickled to gentle when he doesn't add anything else besides a lousy, "I...um."

"...I was just looking at how far you've come." She pats the chair next to her. He didn't even realize there was a spare, a testament to how out-of-touch he is right now. "Sit, sit. While you have the time and aren't _too_ busy to spend time with me on your new whirlwind life, anyway."

Robin starts to say no, of _course_ he has time for her, but that sense of _wrong_ comes back full force and shuts him right back up. So he sits down and looks at what she's holding. It's a picture book. No, _the_ picture book, the old-fashioned leather tome that was practically falling apart after being handed down in his family for generations. She lingers on the baby photos (and he doesn't complain this time) before getting to the group shots.

The back of his mind tickles strangely as he scans the smiling color and sepia faces. He sits up a little at the sight of a broad-shouldered man -- he's holding a young girl, her hair decorated with dozens of pink beads to match the color of her dress. A tiny dragonfly pin keeps her sweater in place. He recognizes those green eyes, that sharp stare, even though he can't for the _life_ of him connect it to a name.

"Who's that?"

"You remember Mr. Jones and his daughter, don't you?" She _clicks_ her tongue. "Surely you don't have _that_ many clients."

Robin gives her a wry look, then turns the page to see a photo of his father. He's hunkered down in his refurbished attic, surrounded by his buddies over a game of cards. The man was never the type for photos, planned _or_ otherwise, and the camera barely manages to catch his furrowed brow as he stares at an apparently bad hand.

"Your mother took that to celebrate the renovation." His grandmother sighs. "If I could get just _one_ photo where he's smiling at the camera I can finally die happy..."

A grayscale photograph of him and his mother in front of the new house, their differing height no match for their identical grins. A _much_ older baby photo of him at an Easter party, the edges soft from being passed back and forth for so long. Robin's hands are starting to shake as he flips photo after photo after photo. No matter how many pages he turns he feels like something (or _someone_ ) is missing.

"Ah, here he is." She promptly snatches the book away and gives him an affectionate, yet firm nudge with her shoulder. "He looks ready to pitch a fit. Go tell him you're okay already."

Behnam is jogging across the field, dressed in a brilliant charcoal-gray tuxedo that he hasn't even _seen_ yet. Robin feels terrible in a thousand different ways even before he's finished standing up and brushing off a few stray blades of grass from his slacks. His fiance reaches out and takes his face in both hands, eyes soft and voice softer as he tries to reign back his obvious concern.

"Hey, what happened?" He asks immediately, not winded in the least. "Are you all right? They told me you ran off in a panic..."

Robin gulps back confused half-sentences and potential ramblings. He has no idea what to say, which doesn't make _sense_ because they've always been honest with each other. Behnam's gray eyes look him up and down, affectionate, confused. His grandmother is back to looking in her book, though her knowing smile doesn't quite leave her face.

"...Robin, hey. Hey, _schtarker_." Recognition prickles in his mind. He...called him that whenever he was hurting. To make him laugh because he was nowhere _near_ as bulky as he was. It was their own little in-joke from their first meeting exactly two years ago. "Ah, there you go."

"...Hey, Behnam." He says with a smile that doesn't sit right on his face. "You know, you're not supposed to see me yet. It's bad luck..."

"Oh, to Hell with bad luck." Behnam sighs and brushes a stray hair back into place. "Though saying it like _that_ is probably tempting fate, I suppose. No, everyone was wondering where you'd suddenly ran off to. Barbara said you looked like you'd seen a ghost." His brows furrow. "You...look _awful._ "

"Really? Better ask my stylist about their return policy, then." Robin manages and the man gives him a frustrated (if good-natured) snort.

"You _know_ what I'm talking about. I've always found you stunning, but words are failing me rather spectacularly right now and I don't think it has anything to do with your tailor." Robin feels his face heat up. Behnam always had a way with words. "I'm serious, though." He peers at him. "Is it just nerves or...?"

' _Existential dread, maybe._ ' He thinks. ' _A panic attack, more likely. Except I've had all of those before and **none** of them have felt like this._ '

"I'm...I'm just lost, Behnam." Robin whispers. "Just a little lost at sea."

Understanding slowly dawns over his face.

"... _Oh_. Oh, Robin. We don't have to do this." God, it clearly hurts him to say this, he can see the pain in his eyes, but he says it all without the faintest hint of a stutter. "You can think about this more. It's okay. I'm not mad, not at all. I...know how nervewracking these things can be."

"No, that's not what..." Robin presses his face to his collar in defeat. "Damn it."

Oh, what the hell is he _doing?_ He's about to get married to a _wonderful_ man. A wonderful man with two brilliant little girls and an unending passion for the mysteries of the world. His mother and father and grandmother and friends have never been anything _but_ supportive, all this time, though by all rights _none_ of this should have happened in the first place.

Their chance encounter at a pleasant little downtown bar, their on-and-off meetings over the weeks. Those dates, little more than a means to break free of working humdrum, had somehow transformed right under Robin's nose into a part of his life he couldn't imagine being without. The weeks became months. The months became a year. Before he knew it, it was as if spiced wine on the patio and long nights watching documentaries had always been there.

He didn't think Talia or Mari would like him. They did, even if the former had butted heads with him the first few months because she thought he was taking her father away. He didn't think he'd find joy in an entirely different family, in being not just _accepted_ by others but truly cherished, as if he were someone that mattered beyond how useful he was at a given moment. There are so many things he didn't think would be possible and, little-by-little, his life's photo album was getting bigger by the second.

There's no reason he shouldn't be happy today. There was _nothing_ wrong. Just like so many other things in his life, he was stopping before he even began.

"Robin." He says, again, and he can't _bear_ the strain in his voice. "I mean it when I say-"

Robin cups Behnam's face and kisses him firmly. The man lets out a little sound into his mouth, surprised and confused and not at all bothered. He's gentle as he returns it, petting the nape of his neck as not to ruffle his hair further. His grandmother takes this opportunity to make a smooth exit, tucking the book carefully under one arm before waving at a relative in the crowd.

"I just...don't want you to have any regrets." Behnam says as he pulls back, just far enough to form the words and just close enough for Robin to lose himself again if he wished. "Because I don't regret you. Not _one_ bit."

"Regrets are wind, anyway." Robin says. He watches his grandmother's retreating back into the cluster of pearly white suits and dresses...

...and just like that...

"This is a dream." Robin blinks. "This is a _dream_."

"Well, I'm certainly glad you think so." Behnam bursts out into a hearty laugh, visibly relieved. "I was afraid it'd become your worst nightmare."

Robin looks over the man's shoulder, looks around him at the lights now glowing amid the treetops and the smoke from the kitchens starting to dust the air. No...no, it's all _wrong_. His life is...with his boys. With his violent, claustrophobic, smog-ridden city. With Bane. How did he get here? He was in that room with Waylon Jones, with Crane, he was tied up and about to be taken to someone who hated the very air he breathed...

The panic comes back, but with it a fresh wave of anger. This is what his toxin did. This is what it _did_. No matter the flavor of the week, obsession or fear or trauma, it dangled a better life in front of people's noses just to yank it away. A picture-perfect lie constructed on the innermost desires and fears of its victims. Bane had once called it despair. He doesn't think this is the case. No, Crane had bottled up something _far_ worse.

He could give in. Resent the life he built in Gotham and turn back to the wedding with Behnam by his side. It would be easy. Beautiful, even. But it wouldn't be _his_.

"At least we have enough time to come up with an apology." Behnam is saying, adjusting his collar. "Though with any luck everyone will be too hammered to remember."

Robin turns to leave, but not before he says goodbye.

"I hope... _wherever_ you are...you find happiness." He means it. "Maybe this could actually happen between us."

"Robin...?" Behnam tries to hold onto him. "Robin, _wait-_ "

He's running again, but he's not running away. No, he's shrugging off temptation like a bad cold. He'd never taken the easy way out before and no amount of bullshit _toxin_ was going to change that. The evening blends into mornings. The trees and lights blur into one another. His entire world shifts like oil and water...

...and just like oil and water, he knows dreams and reality shouldn't mingle.

...Blake wakes up with his face pressed against the ground.

His head is ramming against his chest like a jackhammer, right along with his ankle, and his throat feels _unreal_. The only way he can tell how long it's been is how the light between the fanblades have changed. Pale and bright. Casting long shadows across the room. Morning, maybe. Early afternoon. He's been here overnight, that much is clear. Only one fan is on, a ponderous, thrumming _brrr_ - _brrr_ that rattles the cheap floorboards. He can hear a faint _snuffling_ sound somewhere beyond him. Is it...crying? Shit, maybe it's him.

Hard drugs are pretty foreign to him (Reilly had always been stern about anything harder than painkillers), but he wonders in the back of his mind if this is what the end of a bad trip feels like. His arms and legs have long since fallen asleep and feel like they don't even belong to him. Bags of sand strapped to his torso. He shifts, tries to speak, blinking past the nausea and the dryness.

"...He'll be back soon." The alligator man mutters from across the room. "There was a problem with one of the fans."

Right. Crane. That's good. That means he has time to cook up some sort of plan, only he's so thirsty he can't _think_. He tries to respond and whatever sound escapes is a lot less like words and more a mangled croak. Waylon seems to get the gist, anyway, and skulks over. Blake can't bring himself to struggle or threat, but he doesn't need to. The man just holds a waterbottle to his lips and tips it carefully.

"Waylon." Blake coughs once his voice has returned to him. "Waylon, l-listen to me...we still have a chance to set things right here."

"Don't _call_ me that." He yanks the water away and stalks off again. Blake tries to push past the sleepy numbness still weighing him down, _tries_ to formulate a plan somewhere in the fog that's settled into his brain, but just reinstating the facts feels like an entire day's worth of work. He has no weapons. He's chained up. Crane will be back soon. He barely even knows where the hell he is. These are not good odds.

' _You can still go back to him, you know._ ' Crane's voice whispers, as sweet as a bell on the wind. ' _It's not too late to have something go right._ "

"Shut the _hell_ up." Blake growls. The alligator man frowns at him over his shoulder, but doesn't speak. Aside from giving him water he doesn't do much but huddle against the far wall. The memory of his murdered fellows rises to his mind, a fresh yet neglected memory, and it's only his dizzy state that keeps him acknowledging it fully.

There's nothing else he can do. That is...except try to appeal to Waylon Jones' humanity. The humanity buried deep enough to have him attacking a home full of kids, but powerful enough to have him taking care of the distorted cast-offs of an illegal experiment. He doesn't want to. He wants to pull off these chains and _throttle_ him for what he put his boys through, what one of his own did to _Reilly_...but he wasn't going to take the easy way out.

"Hey. I saw...I saw her." Blake says from where he lays on his side, the words coming out slow, yet steady. "Your daughter."

"What?" He sounds confused, then shocked...then _dangerous_. "What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

"She had beads in her hair. She was wearing a pink dress."

"I said _stop!_ " He flexes his claws, but his voice has become raw. Like he's a sliver away from breaking every last thing in this room, starting with him. "I'll _kill_ you. I'll kill you. I don't even care if Crane comes back, I'll tear out your _heart_."

What was her name? What the _hell_ was her name? He can't remember. All he had were pictures. Pictures from a not-quite-dream, lost somewhere in a not-quite-future.

"A gap between her teeth...she looked just like you." Blake swallows back the last dredges of moisture, his throat _clicking_ with the effort. " _Just_ like you."

He doesn't know how much Waylon has seen from the toxin, how it could affect him, but something strange passes over his face. A crack in the murderous rage.

"...What pin was she wearing?"

"A dragonfly."

The _click-clack_ of footsteps down the hall. The door bursts open and Crane storms in, looking incredibly haggard. His mask is off again and he keeps checking his phone. Something's wrong and it's only a matter of time before he takes it out on one of them. After checking the broken fan, he turns around and does exactly that.

"I asked you to get a _move_ on, Croc." Crane snarls. "You may be an animal, but surely you aren't _stupid_ , as well? We're on a time _limit_."

"I...gave him water. That's all." Waylon mutters, still towering over the thin man even as he lowers his head.

"That's _all?_ You were supposed to feed him and get him somewhat coherent before being brought to Talia. At least, that _would_ be the case if she would return my damned message. Surrounded by incompetents day in and day out." Crane fumbles in his pocket, far less collected than he'd been before. "At least your scaly little friends were good at obeying orders. What happened to them?"

"They're...dead." Is it Blake's shaky vision or is Waylon starting to move? "They're all dead."

"And the same will happen to _you_ if you don't work that gray lump in-between your-"

Crane doesn't finish his sentence, because the top half of his head has been torn clean off. Blake stares wordlessly as he slowly slumps to the side, then slides down the wall to collapse with a meaty _thunk_ beside him. He's so out of it he doesn't even pull back from the hot seep of blood working its way across the floor.

"...I can _stop_ this." He says as Waylon stares at the dead body between them like a fallen barrier. "... _Please._ "

Blake waits for Waylon to rend the upper half of his head from his jaw, too. Instead the man just pulls off his binds. The hate, the spite, it's all drained out of him. It takes the detective some effort to get to his feet, his legs sore from disuse and his entire constitution still screaming for water. When they got out of here, he was going to find Waylon help. For now he had to stop Crane from turning Gotham into the world's largest graveyard.

He looks around the room. Shutting off the fans was only part of the solution. The toxin was already in the air, the fan blades busy at work infecting thousands (maybe _millions_ ) the entire time he was knocked out on the floor. Snuffing out life after life. If Crane wasn't outright lying, he could be taking out future _generations_ , at that.

"Smoke weakens its effects. It doesn't eliminate it, but it's better than nothing..." He mutters, more to himself, looking at the cluster of wires pumping power into the fans. "We just need a spark. Anything, just... _anything._ If I can just start a large enough fire to burn what's already out there..." He reaches into his pocket. He still has his lighter. He flicks it, over and over and _over_ , but it's dead. Blake hits his fist against the wall. " _Damn_ it!"

The alligator man watches him fuss and rage for a minute. Then he decides to speak up.

"...I have a bomb in my shoulder."

Blake runs a shaky hand through his hair. "What are you talking about? What bomb?"

"I said I have a _bomb_ in my _shoulder_." A touch of that characteristic sullenness from earlier comes back into his voice. "God, you're slow."

Like a computer catching up to speed after a lag Blake's mind is working overtime. He remembers, vaguely, what Bane said about the defectors from the League 'blowing up'. He'd hoped it was a metaphor, though it was stated as coldly as a fact.

"But...why?"

"She put it inside of me to keep me from running off." Waylon says, confirming his thoughts without a hint of anger. "...It'll be the spark you need."

"Are there any bombs in the...the others?" There had already been a huge explosion near the downtown area. It was _just_ starting to be fully patched up.

"Just me." Waylon scuffs the ground with his tail. "Lucky as always."

"No...no, we can find another way." He argues. "You won't _survive_ something like that."

"You think I don't _know_ that? When she finds out I killed Crane I'm as good as roadkill, anyway."

"Who's 'she'?"

"She told me her name was Talia."

 _Talia._ The name burns in his mind like a brand. Talia, who masqueraded as the inspiring ingenue his city desperately craved. Talia, who tried to kill him in his own apartment. Talia, who held Bane fast in her grip and, even in her absence, refused to let go.

"But...you..." Blake says, helplessly, and the man grips him with two massive, scaled hands.

"I thought I could figure it out with the others. Now they're _gone_. I'd kill you, too, and be _done_ with it, but the least...the least I can do is make sure this doesn't happen to Sara and Amalah, too." Waylon Jones slowly lets go. "Make sure this doesn't happen to _anyone_ else."

It's a long shot. The whole damn thing is. He doesn't tell him he's sorry. But he does tell him he'll do everything he can.

Blake leaves the building just before the explosion hits, one that sends fire plumes shooting out of the windows like a sight straight out of a macabre magic show. He lets the ringing in his ears block the horror in his head as he gathers whatever flammable items he can find (discarded clothes, dropped newspaper-) and starts burning whatever he can with the flames that engulf the building. A little property lost, a few fucked-up _lungs_ were nothing compared to losing lives.

He takes a moment to pause and watch the red flames fighting the blue smoke from a safe distance, turning it gray, choking the air and throttling the toxin out of it with a few ailments of its own. Maybe he'd apologize to Pamela later about giving her plants more gunk to filter. Apologize to Reilly for not doing more to keep the orphanage safe. Apologize to Bane for picking the worst possible fight at the worst possible time. Come to think of it, there were a _lot_ of people he needed to say he was sorry to. 

Crane's toxin does its very best every step of the way. Shadows whisper at him from around every corner. Images fold out of the gravek like a pop-up book, trying to stagger him with images of bloodied playing cards and broken bricks and burning homes. Sadly for them, his faults and failures are like the swell of smoke trailing after his footsteps as he wanders through a too-empty Gotham. They choke him, make it hard to see, but the more he moves...the less control they have.

' _Remember despair doesn't want you moving._ ' He remembers Bane saying, back amid the trees, and he reminds himself to tell him sorry _and_ thank you.

"You're not _real._ " Blake says to a vision of Foley standing on the street corner with two holes in his head. As if repelled it flickers and vanishes, little more than a mirage in the billowing gray clouds. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Fuck off."

He laughs (and coughs) all the way through the sullied Gotham Heights suburbs, all the way to Barbara's apartment, and laughs a little more when he sees she's actually _there_. With her grandfather, to boot.

"Woah, what are you doing here?" He exclaims, jittery from the run (and not entirely sure they're real).

" _Blake?!_ " She all but screams. "What are you even talking about, I _live_ here. We've been trying to call you! Where have _you_ been?"

"I think he was talking to me, hon." Gordon says, though he's pale as a sheet.

"I need a, um...a ride, my boys are in danger right now, I lost all my shit and they're all dead, under the sewers, and we can check later when we have the time..." Blake explains, or chatters, he's not really sure. He's _definitely_ sure that he's cold and tired and hungry, though. Where the hell did he put his smokes? "Can you just drop me off at Swithin's? I'll pay for gas if I can get my bank account open again..."

They say nothing and just throw their arms around him. Smelly, wet clothes be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I might as well!" is surprisingly good motivation for creating and submitting. I highly recommend it.


	59. One By One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for some disturbing imagery (mentions of gore).

Verónica _hated_ it on the island.

The third month out away from the mainland and it already feels like a year. She missed her friends. She missed her school. She missed things _happening_. Mamá kept telling her she didn't take the violence seriously because they'd gotten lucky enough to get away from lockdown. She certainly didn't _feel_ lucky in a place with less than a hundred people, no kids and way too many seagulls. With the way things were going she was going to die of boredom before she ever had a gun held to her face.

She had taken extra care to stomp in as many puddles as she could on her way back from the tutor's, her own little bit of defiance on a hunk of rock that hated her, and only stopped when she saw an unconscious man laying on the ground with a knife sticking out of his back. It was the first time in three long months did she think her mother might have a point.

He was massive. Bigger and taller than even her father, and Verónica had been told ever since she learned how to walk to avoid strangers no matter what size or shape they came in. It was also clear he needed _immediate_ help. His breathing sounded weird, all rusty and grating like a rusty bike chain, and he kept twitching about. The little girl had hastily texted her mother, trying to remember all the things she told her about first aid in the meantime.

Although her mind echoed her -- " _Check their pulse and their breathing first. Talk to them, even if they're unconscious. An unconscious person can still sense when they're hurting and alone._ " -- she'd dithered about for minutes trying to figure out where to begin. Pull the knife out? Maybe try and wake him up? Every new thought sounded worse than the last.

Verónica thought it must have been hard to breathe with that bright red helmet, at least. So she started with the most simple option and tugged it off...

Looking back on it a few hours later, her screaming and running away was pretty ridiculous. She completes her chores with an uncharacteristic pep in her step and even finishes her books. Her life could be exciting, too, even on a tiny little island filled with nothing but nasty fishing boats and stinking crates. Her friends on the mainland were going to be so _jealous_. They were always bragging about how they saw the masked man in-person or how someone they knew fought him and lived.

What would they say when they found out he was in her _house_?

Mamá told her to stay away until she was done with laundry...but _one_ more peek couldn't hurt.

The blankets are all over the living room floor when she walks inside. The wooden drawer by the window is torn open and one of the chairs has been knocked over. Her eyes trail up the sporadic mess to the bulky shadow that twitches by the window, excitement draining away like the blood from her face. Verónica goggles silently at the gnarled scars that twist Bane's mouth as he snarls.

" _...Where is my mask?!_ "

\--

Stale air within. The rumble and shuffle of prisoners echoes without. Condensation drips somewhere, everywhere, a neverending song as familiar as his bones. He tries to sit up, only to momentarily crush his eyes shut at the glare of white that pushes through the rusted bars. He sees cold stone walls stretching, higher and higher and higher until they seem to brush against the pale sky yawning above.

He's in the _pit_.

Panic settles over Bane in a clammy chill. For a moment he can neither breathe nor think for sheer horror. Then a soft _scraping_ diverts his attention. Bruce is leaning beside the bed, arms crossed and a mild frown knitting his brow.

"You..." Bane can barely speak, much less move. Why...why can't he _move_? "How am I back here...?"

"A man with no plan and a man who does nothing _but_ plan." Bruce murmurs, rubbing at the smooth stubble on his chin. "The only trait you and the Joker shared is neither of you had anything to fear. Maybe I should sit down and sift through _all_ the enemies I've made over the years. See what other connections I've been missing."

"How...did you escape?" It's not _possible_. A man like him could never work up the strength, mental _or_ physical, to escape the pit. There was only one that did and she was long gone.

"I did what you couldn't. I always did what you couldn't. Ra's saw that." Bruce cocks his head down at him. "Are you afraid of me, Bane?"

There are no words that could honor his _rage_. Without further commentary, without even waiting for _any_ answer, Bruce turns and leaves. With a sick lurch of adrenaline Bane lunges to his feet and rushes forward to follow, only to grapple at the bars. He's prepared to wrench them out of place, use them to _kill_ if need be, but the door is unlocked and they swing forward without complaint. His eyes adjust to the familiar stairways and stone corridors, the rows and rows of dirty cells. Bruce is nowhere to be found.

His mask is gone. So are his scars. People can't see him like this, so he keeps to the shadows and stalks past cell after cell after cell, unsettled by these changes, and only lingers when he sees a familiar face. Her dirty hair plaited over one shoulder, the worried lines that have settled around her eyes...she's captivating. A flower blooming in the ashes.

"...She would have been named Mari." Lael cradles a bloody bundle in her arms, no longer moving, perhaps never having even gotten the chance outside the womb. "Now Talia will be all alone."

"She won't be alone." Bane reaches through the bars, imploringly, though Lael doesn't even seem to notice him. "I will protect her, always."

_deshi, deshi, deshi, basara, basara_

The chant has started. It echoes from wall-to-wall, making the meager few hundred prisoners instead sound like the healthy swell of thousands. Normally he would turn and watch. This time he ignores it.

"You never had to give yourself up for Ra's. You should have let him _go_ and found someone else to fill the hole inside you." He says when she doesn't look his way. It's as if he's not there and never was. "He didn't _deserve_ you...I don't believe he ever did."

"I tried to save her." Bane stiffens at the new voice. Someone else is in the cell. It's Yaakov, the prison doctor, looking at Lael with sorrow in his eyes. "For three days I tried to make little Mari breathe again. It was a shame, but also a blessing, I believe." He runs a sad hand over where the baby's head would be. "She won't have to suffer the pit."

With a wordless snarl Bane flings the door open and lunges inside, grabs the doctor by the back of his neck to _yank_ him away.

"I did what I could for your face. Your spine." He doesn't even struggle. He knows there's no use. "There was _nothing_ I could do."

"It's not because of _my_ injuries you suffer. You could have locked the door." He'll throttle him until his throat collapses. He'll break his back and leave him forever scrabbling in the dust. He'll pull out every last tooth in his mouth. Everything but _kill_ him. "You knew better. These prisoners hounded her ever since she came, they crept after her like animals and you let her die out of simple _neglect_."

"I could have helped more people. I could have atoned for my mistake." It's less and less the younger doctor that stares up at him, recently disposed into the pit after his career took an unexpected turn in the world above. Yaakov withers and grays, his pupils fading into an unseeing mirror, transforming into the old shell Bane would glimpse during his rare visits to the pit. "You took away _far_ more than just my sight."

"I would do it again." Bane grinds his fingers into the doctor's face, buries his thumbs into his eyes and clutches the soft flesh until it squelches like rotten fruit. " _I would do it again._ "

Yaakov's gasps, his own words, they both collapse into blood, then dirt, then eventually nothing. Bane barely recognizes it's his own breath that's now cutting up the dusty air. His mask...his mask is back on his face. He's not Behnam. He's _Bane_. He escaped the pit and made it his own. There is nothing for him to fear.

Bane moves over to Lael. However she got down here again, he would set her free...

...he pulls back at the expression on her face. Lael doesn't share his relief. She takes one look at his mask, clutches her dead baby to her chest and flees past him right out of the cell.

" _Lael!_ "

He reaches out to her, again, but she's swift, she eludes him. Every cell he runs past calls out to him. Gnarled hands reach out with piteous purpose. Nobody touches him. Nobody would _dare_. But Lael wasn't safe. She was ever a target, he had to find her and bring her back...

_deshi, deshi, basara, basara, deshi, deshi, basara, basara_

Of course. They only chanted when someone attempted the impossible climb. Bane briefly neglects his pursuit to peer at the shape working its way up the steep walls. The lean build, the dark hair...it's less these details that have him captivated. No, it's the utterly fearless way they _move_ , absurd and inspiring all at once.

"John?" He breathes. " _How..._ "

He doesn't know how the detective hears him, all the way down here, but sure enough he pauses, just long enough to fully turn and look down at him, though the shadow holds his expression at bay. The rope dangles neglected. Why doesn't he respond...? Why didn't the prisoners attempt to _stop_ him?

"Banen? I'm thirsty..."

For a moment it feels like his heart actually stops. Bane turns and looks down the curving stone stretch at the tiny, bald child with filthy feet.

"You need to come with me." He doesn't say her name -- he _never_ said her true name out loud -- and reaches for her, too. Just like Lael she turns and flees down the halls, down the stone stairs, down where all the prisoners are congregating... "No, no, _no_ -"

She couldn't go near the other prisoners. Even the faintest whiff of her true self could be enough to override their fear of him and have her follow in her mother's footsteps. It starts to rain as he makes his way down. The accursed guards haven't put down the _tarp_. There would be more drownings tonight. More frozen bodies to be collected come morning. He wouldn't let that happen. He was needed. He had to get _out_.

Bane shoves past the prisoners crowding along the main floor. _Snarls_ at those who stumble over their own feet in their haste to get away from him. He can't find where Talia had run off to, though they are shrinking into the gray shadows en masse, still murmuring their ceaseless chant at John's heels. He recognizes some of these faces. Prisoners that had lusted after Talia. Others who had tortured him for days on end, whose names he never knew but with voices that took _years_ to be scrubbed from his head.

He could kill all of them, again, just like he did the doctor...

" _Bane!_ "

Bane's head whips up. A voice calls down to him all the way from the very top, a narrow black shadow against the bright day. His heart sings. John made it out. He _escaped_. Lael and Talia were still down here, but he couldn't stay. He _had_ to find out where John was going off to (the guards would try to stop him, make an example of him, they were too cruel _not_ to-) but he would come back down for them. Bane would come back, League in tow, and enact terrible vengeance...

_deshi, deshi, deshi, basara, basara, basara_

Bane digs his fingers into the stone and begins the climb.

He hauls himself up with the strength he could've depended on once upon a time, a strength that seems strangely boneless now, almost flaccid, every limb shaking with the exertion of holding him on the wall. He doesn't even look at the rope when he passes it. Halfway up his mask comes loose and falls from his face to drift into the yawning shadow below. If he grapples for it, even momentarily, he'll lose his hold.

Without his analgesic to suspend it the pain surfaces again. When he feels the breeze above...he almost forgets it entirely. He can _taste_ the air, brilliant and humid without the leather in the way. Rain drizzles now. It makes the stone slippery, almost impossible, but he holds fast, just like he did for the countless, countless days. John made it out. He could make it, too. He would make it.

A hand appears over the edge. John is reaching down to him, expression still masked by the light draped across his back. Bane's strength is failing, his back throbs _furiously_ , but he can't reach out to him. Nobody could use the rope and _make_ it. If he takes John's hand now...if he lets him pull him up...

It's that split-second hesitation that makes him slip.

Bane can see his body as if through the eyes of a passive viewer. A dark speck momentarily suspended in a halo of light, his cast shadow trailing a smooth line into the fathomless black that bleeds all the way down-

" _No!_ "

Bane's eyes snap open-

-just in time to see he's about to fall off the bed. He grapples at the blanket with clumsy hands as he slips over the side and catches himself at the last possible second, halfway suspended off the floor with one hand. On-edge and with a gaze still blurred by sleep he looks around frantically.

He hasn't been to the pit since he threw Bruce inside. He's not in Talia's shack. There isn't a League member in sight. Bane jerks to attention at the sound of thunder just outside the window behind him. No...he's in a stranger's home.

Without further hesitation he lets himself slide to the floor, flings the tangle of blankets away from him and stands up...only to immediately hunch back down in agony so white-hot he's _gasping_. There's a burning pain near his shoulderblade and his spine is clawing at him with vicious fingers. His hands start patting his chest of their own volition, the bed, the floor, trying to figure out through touch where sight has become compromised. His shirt is off, his boots are to the side, his mask is...

He suddenly reaches over toward a wooden shelf and yanks open the first drawer. When he doesn't find it he tears it out to let it clatter to the ground and desperately searches the second. _Who took it?_ His head is swimming, his body is fire, even _breathing_ feels like a physical feat he can barely accomplish. A flash of yellow out of the corner of his eye momentarily stops his frantic search. The girl from before, with the colorful backpack and curious stare, is watching him.

" _Where is my mask?!_ "

" _Mamá!_ Mamá, he's awake!"

The drumming of feet heralds multiple people, foreboding with his lack of knowledge and the relentless pyre consuming him head-to-toe. If they were attempting to capture him and turn him in they would find it the last regret of their _lives_.

"Verónica! I _told_ you not to go inside until I said so-"

"Should I call someone? I can see if Raúl is home, he can make sure-"

"No, absolutely not, just stay back-"

Faces swim in the doorway across the blue expanse of the cold room. Bane grips the metal bedstand as he staggers to his feet, so hard it whines beneath his grip, then bends. The surprise and relief on their faces mutates quickly into fear.

"...My mask." He hisses. "Give me my _mask_."

"You need to lay down, you've been badly injured-" A soft, feminine voice begins once the clamor has ceased. "You're okay, you've just been-"

" ** _Now!_** "

"Honey, get the mask. Go on." An urgent whisper. "In the bathroom."

The girl scampers off and immediately returns with his mask held in both hands. She holds it up to her mother, who takes a few ginger steps forward to place it on the ground...only to _leap_ backwards when Bane snatches it. He already knows it's low. Maybe even empty. He holds it to his mouth and takes in a tight breath, akin to a single drop of water on a bone-dry tongue, the frenzied fervor that takes him over when his artificial need isn't met starting to haze his vision-

"My coat. Bring it to me." He croaks. The words are so _slow_ , none of his usual command or intensity getting across. It makes him wonder if he's been drugged or if the pain has crossed his threshold. "My brace."

"Just do it." Someone else says, rough. "Go, hurry up."

One-by-one his things are returned to him, in the same hesitant manner, always a foot or two out of his reach, the doorway a safe haven to be retreated into. His back brace would have to wait. Bane fumbles inelegantly in his coat pockets for spare anesthesia canisters. He doesn't even know if he'll have the motor control to administer it, but the pain is overwhelming his higher brain functions and turning him savage. He's in danger. They've taken what's his, attempted to expose his _identity_. He has to subdue them, _now-_

"Should we help, Mamá...?"

"Maybe, I...I don't know what he's doing..."

The front of his mask twisting apart shakes him from his daze. His nails scrabble briefly against the repurposed steel, dig inside, then he flings away the empty canisters to the ground. Almost there. Almost...

Aside from picking up a kitchen knife the mother has remained a still and maternal presence, her children on either side of her. She holds the handle so tightly the skin over her knuckles pull, near-white pinpoints in the dim room.

Bane finds the full canisters at the bottom of his coat, only to snarl his frustration when they bounce from his shaking hands to clatter to the floor. He hears a warning hiss from the older woman when the girl reaches out to take it. It's just as well -- he doesn't trust himself not to snarl at _her_ , too. The pain, however, is too much. He's barely started to grope around for it before he's curling into himself like a wounded animal.

A small hand presses one of the dropped canisters into his open, quivering palm.

" _Verónica!_ Get back here, right now-"

She's tugged back. He ignores this and keeps trying to wring purpose out of the mask with the last of his strength. The violent tremble of his fingers almost keeps the canister from going in and the faint _click_ is as sweet as music when it hit its mark. He snaps the front back in place. Adjusts the wires to let in the maximum amount. Attempts to rise to his knees, then simply slumps his side against the bed's flank and takes in breath after wheezing breath.

It takes effect quickly, but it's a double-edged sword. The relief makes him _dangerously_ light-headed and he has to hold onto the ruined bedstand again for leverage. Everything sharpens into place.

Bane takes in every detail one-by-one. The cool shadows draped across the room and turning everything as blue as an underwater cove, the mess of the blankets and furniture he's made bleeding out of the shadows. The warm crackle of a fire flickers somewhere beyond the door, attempting valiantly to warm a cheap abode. Rain is announcing its arrival in a soft _pitter-patter_ against the window. The terse breathing of these helpful strangers across the room makes him focus.

He's not in danger, but that doesn't mean he's safe.

"...Where am I?" Bane asks once his mind has, more or less, returned to him. The woman holds up a hand and stretches out her fingers in the pale light falling from the window. They're delicate, yet weathered, stories etched into her olive skin.

"How many am I holding up?"

...Ah. She must work in medicine. Anyone else would have answered immediately, out of fear or a desire to get him to leave as soon as possible. Her accent is atypical of mainland Gothamites, as well, and he takes note of this as he fixes his mouth for an answer. It takes longer than he would like, his vision still swaying like a bout of incoming seasickness.

"...Four."

"How about now?"

"Six."

"Repeat after me. Blanket, house, water."

"Blanket, house, water." He replies, this time in Spanish, and her tight expression relaxes into something more appreciative, though not surprised. She was familiar with his appearances, then. Many knew of him, of course, but how _much_ (and how honestly) varied from person-to-person...and that could prove a problem. He would address it soon enough.

"Do you remember anything before waking up?" She continues as Bane sits back on the bed. "Anything at all?"

Oh, yes. Frayed senses or no, he remembers quite a bit. He remembers the malicious slide of metal through jacket, then mesh, then flesh. Bitter betrayal from _all_ sides, save for a sentimental old butler he had never expected to put trust in him being swept away into his mistakes like all the rest. Bane starts to shiver. There is nowhere he can take out his wrath, not in his state and not with the presence of innocents at arm's length, and this temporary helplessness festers _instantly_.

"Yes." Bane controls the temper in his tone, but only just. "Now I will ask again... _where_ am I?"

He's leaning forward on his knees, his head is bowed and he's breathing calmly, but like any parent this woman can smell intent. The weak floorboards _creak_ as she settles into a wary stance. One of her children, a young man, wraps a protective arm around her shoulders.

"My house." She replies in the fluid roll of her mother tongue. "You were stabbed in the back with a knife and...seemed to be under the influence of a numbing agent, I'm not sure what kind. My daughter found you outside, then my son and I brought you here. You could have died if..." She interrupts herself quickly. "Nobody saw you. You've been here the whole time."

"When was this?"

"Yesterday."

" _Yesterday_." He repeats, crushing his eyes tight and counting every _damned_ breath in an effort to stay sane. Bruce would be long gone by now. Him, Alfred _and_ Talia, whisked away right under his own nose. He's unsure where the former dark knight would go in such a state, only that he was going to have to sniff down a cooling trail with his combat prowess compromised. It's another minute before he thinks to speak...then another, then another. He can't talk until he can trust himself to be guided by logic.

How many times would he give chase?

Bane opens his eyes and takes in the thick braid of her hair over one shoulder, the maternal concern filling the room with an almost supernatural energy. The knife has remained steady in her other hand. She's more plump, not quite as tall, and yet so _much_ like...

"...I'm sorry." He initially thinks better of it, then forces himself to lower his head a little. He needs to overcompensate more than usual for his mask and it would be all too easy for them to misread his mood. "My behavior earlier was...distasteful."

Her son's eyes flick to the furniture scattered across the room, along the ruined bed, then back, clearly disbelieving. The little girl, Verónica, doesn't take her eyes off him from where she peers behind her mother's wrinkled hem.

"That's...fine. You're confused and in pain. _Were_ confused and in pain, you...seem to be doing much better now." She hesitates with another thought, as brief as a blink, and he knows the next words that come out will be a lie. "Is your mask more than-...never mind. Here, let's...let's just start again. My name is Rosario."

"A pleasure...Rosario." Now he registers the very dull pain in his back. He reaches over with his left and feels along the thick (and tidy) stitches past his right shoulder. "You're a nurse."

"For twelve years, yes. I'm retired now, but I keep equipment on hand for family. Especially with children, always getting hurt. You're very lucky, you know." Rosario nods at him. "Your heart or lung could have been punctured. I still suggest you rest to make sure no infection follows. I...I took off the mask to make sure you weren't expelling blood. I wasn't trying to...reveal you."

"I appreciate it." Bane says with a gracious, and deliberate, incline to his head. "Anything else would bode poorly for both of us."

His tone makes all three of them nervous (he can sense their breathing patterns quickening with a mouse-like fervor), and it should. Bane may be grateful, but he was ever cautious. It was the only reaction he could have when many still wanted him dead, at _best_. Ra's had pulled him out of the pit himself, only to treat him as one of his greatest shames, no matter how many times Bane bled on his behalf. No olive branch was beyond scrutiny.

"You've lost some blood, though not enough for a transfusion, I believe. You also have other injuries." Rosario moves toward him. "Your ribcage has been under a lot of stress and you have some heavy bruising around your stomach-"

"I'm _aware_." He suddenly snaps, the memory of his fight with John surfacing with a poisonous quickness. She freezes in place and goes quiet. Bane curses himself inwardly and attempts the most neutral expression he can. "They are...negligible elements. Most of them sustained some time ago."

"Are you going to hurt us?" The young man asks, with the abruptness that comes from false courage. Bane looks over Rosario's shoulder. He was a dock worker, judging by his marked coat and work boots, and still green around the ears despite the stubble growing up and down his neck.

"No. Unless you give me a reason to."

Rosario gives her son a warning glance to stay silent, then pulls up one of the overturned chairs to sit across from Bane, even handing the knife to the young man in a display of trust. The mood is tenuous, still, but the sharp tang of fear in the air has softened.

"Actually...Bane. I've always wanted to...thank you." It's almost phrased as a question.

"Thank me." Bane repeats, mechanically. "What for?"

"What a strange blessing. I never thought I would get the chance, but here you are, in my own home. You need to rest and recover, of course, I won't take long, but if I could just thank you first..."

Bane stares silently. She swallows and places both hands on her lap.

"You returned my husband to me." She speaks with the sturdiness of someone who has prepared this speech long in advance. "He was arrested after participating in a worker's strike from Park Row. It's a manufacturing plant near...near East End, on the mainland. It was just to criticize a lack of overtime pay, but it turned out terribly. I'm not sure if you've already seen...but there were fights. One worker ended up shot."

"Papa's friend." Verónica whispers. Her mother nods solemnly.

"This was just after you first showed up and started organizing your protests. If my husband didn't pay a fine, a fine we _couldn't_ pay, they told us he would be sent to jail. I have lost family to jail before. I knew his chances of coming back out were...slim. Because of you the holding officers let him and the others go. Because it was 'too much work'. Without you turning their attention away..."

"Without _all_ this I would still have a _job_ , though." Miguel mutters, holding onto his elbow and avoiding Bane's gaze. It snaps right back up to his mother at her harsh admonishment.

"Miguel! _Hush._ What has gotten _into_ you today?" She softens immediately when she looks back to Bane, embarrassment written hard on her face. "Forgive him. The past few months have been...hard. On all of us, on you, too, I'm sure. Without you my husband wouldn't have come home, perhaps never, so I mean it. _Thank you_."

Bane is still as a stone, studying the curious scenario before him. A mother who appreciated his work, a son who viewed him an impediment and a daughter who could barely hold back her fascination. Social niceties were a tool he clasped intermittently, at best, and his still-swimming head isn't lending itself to a response.

"You're such a _dork._ " The little girl mutters up at her brother.

"You'll understand when you actually _work_ someday, Vee." He shoots back.

This would be the part where he would soothe Miguel's concerns with a carefully chosen platitude. Perhaps accept Rosario's gratitude with an equal amount of grace. He can't, however, bring himself to say, " _You're welcome_." Nothing of what he does is for commendations -- not when he pushed Talia out of the pit, not when he reformed the League. _Least_ of all when he made a temporary home beneath Gotham to inject justice into its veins.

A worse thought follows the pragmatism. How could he deserve thanks after _all_ these failures?

"...Thank you, Bane." Verónica says, almost too low to hear, and her older brother lets out a small, mollified sigh through his nose. "Sorry if Miguel's being a butthead."

" _Geez_ , Vee." Miguel glances at Bane, brief, then away. "...But, yeah. Thanks. He would've been screwed."

His sense of purpose is warped. For the first time in many years, the masked man feels utterly at a loss for what to do _or_ say next. Yet warmth rises through him through the open appreciation in their eyes, honest, unexpected and all the more _staggering_ for it. If he's helped this family...then he hasn't truly failed, yet.

"...Good." Bane murmurs, the fleeting relief that came with the revelation and repaired mask alike quickly replaced with an all-encompassing nausea. "That's..."

"You're welcome to stay here as long as you like." Rosario looks much more relaxed now that she's shared her story. "What were you doing on the island? You don't have to share, of course, but out of all places to be..."

"Um...?" The little girl starts, pulling at her mother's dress. "Mamá?"

The withdrawal's after-effects are rippling through him like the first few trembles of an earthquake. It's all he can do to tear the mask right back off his face before he's leaning over the floor and vomiting violently.

Rosario goes to him, though not before shooing her children out of the room.

\--

Life always moved forward for Gothamites. No matter what arrived on their doorstep.

Verónica is newly homeschooled because of Gotham's changes and isn't particularly happy about the arrangement. Miguel has recently turned twenty and started work on the docks as a day laborer, one of thousands responsible for keeping Gotham's strained bridges from failing, and he's been out of the job due to lockdown. Bane wasn't able to meet this husband of hers yet, as he was kept away on a temporary contract that could see him gone for days at a time.

He learns all of these things over the coming hours, Rosario filling the silence of his unexpected presence with idle chatter as he gathers his strength. He doesn't want to sleep yet, still chafing under the unfamiliar environment, and lingers in the living room once his stomach's settled.

"My husband would be _honored_ to meet you. He always roots for you every time you come on the television. Not even the Gotham Rogues get him yelling in the living room like your speeches do." She expresses this disappointment profoundly as she prepares dinner, gusty sigh blending pleasantly with the simmer and spit from the pan. "He told me you're more frightening than Batman had ever been. He'd rooted for _him_ , too, back in the day..."

Bane wills himself not to bristle at the harmless remark. His mask both blurred his identity and defined him singularly, so _much_ like the dark knight in his desire to hide and inspire. His stomach lurches with instinctive rejection regardless. What good was it now when they've seen the scars on his face, as bare as anyone else? The knife wound in his back feels downright pedestrian compared to his worsening mood.

"It kinda looks like a skull." Verónica whispers from the kitchen doorway. Despite her curiosity growing tenfold over the hours, she's spoken directly to him only rarely. "What does your mask mean?"

" _Nobody cared who I was until I put on the mask_." He had told the CIA agent minutes before crushing his windpipe and sending his government plane spinning hundreds of miles to the earth below. It had been a lie. As fabricated as the wires threading analgesic throughout him like a second supply of blood. Lael had cared. Talia had cared. John, against all reason, had grown to care, even though Bane had never truly shown him his face.

Lael was long dead and Talia was long lost. John was still held in limbo between his passion for his city...and Bane's mistakes. The man lets out a shaky breath. This mask would be the death of everyone he loved _and_ loathed.

Verónica shies away from his sudden, brooding silence. She doesn't speak to him the rest of the night.

Miguel helps dutifully around the house, though his gaze never truly leaves Bane, whether he's taking out the trash or chopping garlic. He can't help but smile a little, freely behind his mask, at how much his behavior reminds him of John. Whether at his orphanage tending to his boys or held captive he was always dancing between suspicious and responsible. That small moment of fondness soon transforms into another note of pain drumming in and out of his body.

_"Nothing's as easy as it should be, is it?"_

He contacts Barsad as the family helps themselves to a meal of potatoes and chicken. His second-in-command has great difficulty hiding his concern over the line, despite the good news -- the League secured their hidden route out of Gotham thanks to the efforts of Selina and Barbara and already has half of their numbers en route to the border as they speak. Fatherly tendencies aside, Bane finds his bare worry unusual...until the man tells him he's lost contact with John.

"He hasn't contacted you?" He repeats, needlessly, as if redundancy could get him a more favorable answer.

" _Not once. I've reached out to Harleen and Selina, but they haven't seen or heard from him since they split up. It's unlike him._ " Barsad's pause is weighted. " _Unless he found a reason not to come back._ "

"I hope not." Is all Bane can bring himself to say. Hope tempts him to believe in less than the worst.

" _I can send men for you. To move beyond the southern border and across the state bridge would take time, so it might be best to leave now..._ "

"No. What matters most is the next stage of our plan. I will return to the rendezvous point as soon as I am able. Besides..." He glances over at Verónica, who promptly ducks back behind the doorframe. "...I am well taken care of."

The evening fades smoothly into night. He wishes he could say the same about his rest. Bat-shaped shadows dangle from the ceiling every time he opens his eyes and flicker in the windows like uninvited spectators. Mocking his state, fully aware they exist outside of the consequence of a firm and dedicated grip. The masked man reasserts his strength whenever he can, with meditative breaths or slow, agonizing stretches. He's never felt weaker.

He has to ration the analgesic so he doesn't run out before he makes his return. Come midnight it's still not enough to stave off the crawl of madness. His new injuries, his old injuries, the withdrawal that gnaws on his sanity like a hound on a bone...this strain on his entire being invites dreams and reality to dance uneasily around each other.

Once he's sure Ra's has risen from the grave to leer at him from the door.

"Talia was the only one fit to take over after my passing." The former leader's merle eyes bore right through him, just like when he was alive."In dooming the League, you've doomed the _world_."

"You chose _him._ " Bane had crossed the room before he was even aware of his body moving, only to see the man shifting beneath his grasping fingers. "You would have doomed it yourself!"

"Theatricality and deception." Ra's never laughed, he'd never seen it, but the mockery was just the same. "Do you know which is which anymore?"

Another time he's convinced Talia is sitting in the rocking chair in the corner, murmuring his name.

"Maybe I'll have twins..." She says as she knits slowly and carefully, as if every last thread is spun from gold. "Wouldn't that be nice, Bane? They could keep each other company."

The children are in their rooms and the mother is out, so there is nobody to stop him from stumbling from the bed to pursue these shadows in a mindless daze. His personal demons taunt him with backwards steps, leading him through the cramped home and wherever they please, relying on his bloodlust to give chase. Soon he's shoving open the back door into the dark. A more lucid Bane would acknowledge his desire to be under the open sky after his nightmares. But he was far from lucid.

He presses his palms onto the ground and grinds his fingers into the cold dirt. It's only when he starts shivering against the mild air does he distantly realize he's running a fever.

It's sheer luck that has Rosario returning minutes later. Once she finds him, feet away from the house and half-mad, she reaches out to him with a hasty bedside manner. Whatever fear had colored her earlier interactions vanishes beneath sympathy so sincere it _hurts_. Just like any other pain, he needs to control it or destroy it.

"Get...get _back_." He manages, though he's not sure if this is the woman that took him in or Lael, freshly arrived to mock him, too. "Don't..."

"Careful now." She whispers, holding him steady by his shoulders. "You're dehydrated and haven't eaten much. Take in deep breaths. One, two. There you go..."

Instinct tells him to push her away and salvage the wreck he's become in less than two days. Erect his walls like an emergency shelter and retreat into savagery. It would be easy -- all it would take is a single look or word or gesture to pinch out the flame.

_"Barely!" He's hurting, and he wants to hurt **him** , and it's that particular whirlwind that threatens to sweep him off his feet. "If I hadn't stopped you when I did!"_

The voices have long since been swallowed up by the omnipresent chatter of gulls. Leaning heavy against her side, Bane lets himself be guided back into the house.

No pain-borne hallucination of John follows him inside. He neither walks into the room in that blue-black jacket he used to always wear, nor curls beside him soft and silent, despite Bane's soul beckoning to him with outstretched hands. He doesn't even join Ra's and Talia in berating him in a sequel to the thrashing they gave each other the night before their mission. He'd welcome it. Every single last blow, physical or otherwise, if only it meant him near.

Once Rosario's finished changing the dressing on his wound (and encouraging, and failing, to get him to eat) his detective proceeds to shadow him in the gap between waking and sleeping. Just close enough, never _close_ enough.

"I took you for granted." She lingers in the doorway as Bane loses his hold on his sick, tired thoughts and spits them out like leftover bile. "I never meant to treat you so poorly...and I did, anyway."

"Bane...?"

"Redemption never gets easier with practice..." Bane sighs as sleep reluctantly arrives. "...does it, John."

_"You said you want to save Gotham, right?" John moves his hand behind him, indicating the messy spare room. Bane allows his eyes to drift along the crude drawings tacked onto the walls down to the bundles of spare clothes piled near to towering in the corners as far out of the way as possible. An ongoing story wrote heavy in forgotten chores and neglected knickknacks. "This is Gotham."_

Resting most of the following day whittles down his fever, leaving him horribly weak and thankfully sane. Back to the prison of his own body and mind, Bane watches the news or watches the family, listens and learns in drifting minutes too sore to be gentle. Later that night Rosario serves her children black bean soup and home-fried chips on an old table in a sectioned-off portion of the living room.

Verónica talks about her friends on the mainland, resentful in her lowered gaze whenever her mother prods for details instead on her homework. Miguel murmurs around hungry bites about a co-worker he dislikes. A happy portrait rests in the middle of the table. A swarthy man with a thick mustache that stretches down to his bottom lip, posing by a boat with a proud swell to his chest.

"Married for almost twenty years." Rosario says when she follows his gaze. "Do you have someone special in your life, Bane?" It's an attempt to humanize him for the benefit of her still-wary children eying him over their plates. A garnish like a candied flower on a cake, as unnecessary as it is kind.

"Yes." Bane has refused a meal again and instead contented himself with watching the drizzle of rain outside the window, having learned by now her children find his direct attention unsettling. "Quite."

"How long have you been together?"

"Not long."

"Do you love him?"

"...Yes."

"Does he know?"

Bane narrows his eyes. This subtle needling irritates him, but not as much as the strange look on her face. This poking comes from _somewhere_ , but the clouds in his head keep him from pinning it down. Did she think his private life a sideshow for her family?

Miguel hunches forward a little at his displeasure and shoots his mother a warning glance.

_"Why do you think snuffing out your humanity is the way to go?" John frowns at him through the steam flickering up from his mug of tea. "Why do you think that's what **anyone** needs of you?"_

"I think so..." Bane begins, an entirely _different_ sickness threatening to make itself known. "...but the doubt remains."

"That's...wow." They all hold the same expression now. Quietly astonished. "You seem so confident in everything you do."

"People have always been a difficult art to master." John's smile flashes in his mind. Not the lazy twitch to his mouth when delivering a smart remark, but that sincere glow he reserved for a few. "There's a lot I've yet to learn."

Rosario smiles, warm and knowing. "I think that's a very good place to start."

" _Woah_." Comes an astonished whisper. Verónica has been repeatedly missing her mouth with her spoon, so fixed she is on glancing at him she's momentarily forgotten how to eat. She accidentally splashes soup all over her shirt this time, earning a sharp retort from her mother and a resigned chuckle from her brother.

The news appears on the television screen across the room. Judging by how the others sit up to attention, this was an evening ritual.

_"Where Is Bane? Authorities Address Rumors About Bomb Location"_

_"Bane Blamed For Chemical Outbreak In Old Gotham, The Narrows, Now Gotham Heights"_

_"Local Activists Shaken By The League's Disappearance. Is The End Of Lockdown Near?"_

A clip plays from the massive protest that shook Gotham to its core. What protesters had fondly dubbed 'The Reckoning'. A carefully edited montage shows Bane snapping the necks of the day's criminals, from the retired officer to John's past co-worker, in front of thousands. It doesn't escape his notice his words have been trimmed, as well as the words of the civilians that had relayed their stories for all to hear. No mentions of those left to flounder helplessly in poverty's wake. Not a hint of the assaults on children and mothers by those sworn to serve true justice.

Like the fading steam clouds from their bowls, their casual warmth dissipates from the room as images flash shadows from the wall. They proceed to finish their meals in silence, the only sounds escaping now the _clink-clink_ of metal on plastic.

"Why did you come to Gotham?" Rosario asks over the television's chatter.

"Gotham's kind of a mess." Verónica offers. "Maybe that's why."

Bane, the infamous masked man striking fear and hope alike in the heart of millions, would tell them of his dreams for Gotham's future. With the natural flow of ink seeping through paper's teeth he feels the rococo words simmer inside him, eager to inspire and move them as he has moved so many over his many years. But he hasn't felt like Bane these past few days. Not with his mundane surroundings, nor their tentative and honest attempts at pulling him into something more human.

Guilt stops the words in their tracks. Bane _would_ tell them Gotham didn't find a liberator in its dark knight and that he was a better replacement...but was it true?

_"Did you even come to Gotham to help?" Even consumed with helpless anger the detective knows exactly where to prod him, as precise as a locksmith. "Or was it to just prove some weird point to Bruce Wayne?"_

"Did you really bring a bomb to the city?" Miguel asks as dinner wraps up. "Or were you just trying to scare everyone?"

"You view me as many things, Miguel." Bane muses as he watches a clip of the 'Batgirl', idly attempting to pinpoint her fighting style. Predominantly judo, with shades of boxing. "Is a liar one of them?"

They put their dishes away, trade soft concerns and talk about their wishes for the following day. Bane is left again to the nightly news. He watches as much as he can before even he can't fight off the exhaustion...though not before finally eating some of that black bean soup under the cover of solitude.

The masked man wakes up very early the following morning, when the horizon is just starting to show a touch of blue, sweating profusely after being chased by another nightmare.

Unlike the ones that came before the details slip past his grasp. For once, he's grateful. He abandons the bed and shrugs on his shirt, still trembling with leftover fever, and makes his way to the living room. Rosario, ever working the tireless shift of a mother, is creaking back-and-forth in a rocking chair in the far corner with a half-finished sweater tumbling over her lap. Her plait is messy and the circles beneath her eyes are stark.

"Are you all right?" She starts to move forward. Bane shakes his head, touched and troubled she's still pushing his well-being to the forefront.

_"I'm starting to wonder if an idol is what the people need right now." He's candid, as frank as if they were friends. "Considering one is down and out and the other looks more like a villain."_

"Old aches and pains." He sits down on the couch and waves a hand to keep her at bay. He can almost hear the detective chiding him for that, but he loathes even the most reserved touch right now. "What are you working on?"

"A gift for when Anton-...my husband comes home." She catches herself, hurriedly, on this name. Bane pretends he doesn't notice the slip-up and studies the design. Angular patterns, like weeping arrows, are beginning to show themselves in colors still held fast by the dark.

"It's lovely. An old technique...?"

"Oh. Yes. My grandmother taught my sister, who then taught me." She holds it up for him to better see. "She made us clothes when we were young. Pretty dresses and little socks. She died at ninety-three." She sets it down and starts working again at the pattern. "A long life well-lived. She tried to share her knowledge with me, but the Lord decided I could figure out the rest on my own."

Bane's hands twitch of their own volition as he watches her work, feeling along the ghost of his idle projects in one row, then two, then back again. There is love in the careful twist of her wrists, an _old_ history, but lapses in her knowledge keep resulting in bungled knots she has to undo and attempt again. Rosario's eyes drift away from her task to his unconscious movements, then back to his gaze with a hint of surprise.

"You knit?"

"Yes." She peers at him, fascinated, and he bears her surprise with hardly more than a mild look in return -- this would forever be an odd hobby for him to have, apparently. "Like yourself I had someone close to me share their knowledge. It's...therapeutic."

"Yes. Yes, it is. Maybe you could help me once you're feeling better." She holds it up again in the light with a tired sigh. "I want to finish this before he returns, but this pattern is so difficult. Now that I think about it...I once saw a photo of you holding yarn. I thought it was just something to get people talking. Like your mask."

Bane smiles.

"Looks can be deceiving."

Rosario's eyes flick away from her work, then back.

"They can." The early morning hours and her exhaustion unearth a new tone to her voice, one he hasn't heard before. Something akin to trepidation. She knits and fusses for a few silent minutes, then asks, soft as thread. "...How many people have you killed, Bane?"

"Many."

"You don't even know the amount?"

"I have lived a long time, Rosario. My earliest memories were bathed in blood. To recall every last wretched soul would be a strain on my mind better served elsewhere." She doesn't respond. Perhaps it's his time to needle _her_. "Would you kill to protect your children?"

"I was taught it's wrong to take a life." She can sense his dissatisfaction with this answer, because she follows up, quickly, "I _would_ , but...I hope it never comes to that."

"Hope." Bane repeats, holding the word as daintily as any needle. "Use it wisely."

She offers him the thread, but he politely refuses, just watching the monotony helping him finally settle back into a more properly tired state. He's not sure if he's dreaming when he glimpses Verónica by his bedside hours later, nestling what seem to be a bottle of painkillers on the pillow beside him.

_"Trust me..." Oblivion in eyes as dark as the trees against the sunset. "...I've got time."_

\--

The third day creeps up far too quickly.

Verónica visits him again very early in the morning. Bane had been aware of her presence, but aware as he would his own heartbeat -- appreciative, yes, but dimly so.

"I heard you, um, talking in your sleep. You sounded upset, so I got you sleeping pills. They help me when I can't sleep. You just have to take two with water. You could put them in your mask, maybe." The _clack-clack_ of the bottle. "I didn't think you could get nightmares, Bane. Does that mean everyone gets them? 'Cause that sucks."

She follows in her mother's footsteps, despite her defiant nature, and it takes all his energy to string together a few words in response. By the time he opens his eyes, she's gone.

Bane wakes a few hours later and washes. He eats again, though not much, and when nobody is around to witness his animalistic, fumbling attempts at chewing through the pain. There are no complications with his wound. Although Rosario lacks the equipment to make a more thorough analysis, she seems positive he'll have a smooth recovery.

"Have you had your back looked at?" The older woman asks once she's finished. There's only sympathy in her tone and she's been careful not to touch his spine all the while.

Verónica has been antsy in the doorway, telling him through her impatient wiggling alone that this was a trip she normally took alone. She wears that yellow raincoat again, though her hair is in thin, braided pigtails now. The little girl's eyes flick meaningfully to the untouched bottle of sleeping pills, though she doesn't speak.

"Years ago, to no avail." It says something of the small, fragile pocket of trust that's built between them that Bane allows her to more closely inspect the scar. "Perhaps someday, but now..."

"It might not be too late. I could look into treatment options for you." She tells him before heading out with her daughter.

Miguel, on the other hand, has trusted him less and less.

Perhaps another would have missed the growing doubt in the young man's eyes and dismissed it as the characteristic inner chatter that went on in the mind of anyone who grew up in one of the most dangerous cities in the world. Indeed, it would be easy and accurate assumption. Gotham has become his home, though, as much as he's tried to distance himself from it. He doesn't just know better now. He _admits_ better.

Bane dons his boots and coat and goes outside for fresh air...as well as to follow the young man's suspicious behavior. Like any doubt he favors, it's rarely wrong.

"Yes, it's really him, Raúl, I keep _telling_ you. Why would I make this up? Even _Vee_ would know better than to come up with something like that."

"Who do you think stabbed him, though? Wait, could I _see_ him? Just a peek, come on."

"No, no, not a chance. She'd kill me. I can't bring you inside, but I was thinking we could take some photos, in case they try to cover it all up..."

Bane learned the art of a silent approach all the way back during the former League Of Shadows. It was always a good trick to have up one's sleeve, especially for his considerable height and weight. He takes Raúl by the neck from behind and squeezes, to Miguel's visible horror, and they go slack as a fish within seconds.

"You...you-" The young man stammers, breathlessly, backing away on shivering legs. "Oh my _god-_ "

"He's unconscious." Bane cuts smoothly into the growing hysteria. "Perhaps he will remember this conversation under the haze of a compromised memory. A hopeful predeliction provided you didn't _call_ anyone."

The young man cringes when Bane eyes his phone, which he hastily holds out in an immediate surrender.

"N-No. I called the-not the cops, just friends, we were just...I'm sorry." His voice grows faint, but there's conviction buried beneath the naked fear. "Don't hurt my family."

Fearful, foolish, but respectful. Bane nods his appreciation, though it doesn't quite blunt the edge to his voice. Betrayal has left him raw. If not checked, it would twist him apart...and not him alone.

"Your family has done me a kindness. I would be remiss to return the favor so _shamefully_."

Bane closes his eyes and, briefly, tells the cold hand of logic to hold itself steady.

"What are you afraid of, Miguel?"

"...I haven't gotten any work since the protests. I have to help, but I can't when we just don't have any _money_." A helpless shrug. "Verónica is so unhappy out here. You've changed everything over there and it's...just. Even though you kept Papa out of jail. I really do appreciate that, I do. I thought turning you in, we could...I'm sorry, this was...this was stupid of me." He looks back to his friend on the ground. "You're not going to...hurt him...are you?"

_"If every jackass in Gotham up and died tomorrow I think the only people that'd be left standing would be toddlers and nuns." John always found ways to make him laugh. "Or just toddlers."_

"I don't want to. That said, I also don't want your loved ones unduly exposed in this uncertain environment and hauled in by the Gotham City Police Department for questioning. Your mother's status and your family's origins mean you would have little recourse. You have put us _all_ in danger." Bane holds Miguel's gaze like he would keep someone's chin between finger and forethumb. "The truth should have stayed within this _house_."

It wasn't ideal, but the past few decades of his life never have been.

"It will fall on you to protect your family from this decision." He turns, then pauses. "...Tell your sister the answer is yes, but we should _learn_ from them. It's only when we flee do they haunt us rather than teach us."

There was no more time to waste. Bane goes back inside to don his damaged vest and zip up his coat. Pulls on his gloves and boots. Like shedding an old skin he feels himself coming back into his persona. He leaves as the third day is rising beyond the gray, though not before taking a few minutes to complete the distressed stitch on Rosario's half-finished sweater.

The gray dawn is deceptively still, but he can feel his purpose tugging at him from beyond the horizon. The only person he passes on his way out of the barely-town is an older man with a long, heavy mustache, bulging pack slung over one shoulder and jacket shimmering from the rain. Bane wishes him a good morning before making the long trek back to Gotham's mountain border.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is technically the last 'filler'-type chapter with some foreshadowing. I came up with this rather late, actually, and it's pretty neat to reach a point where I can balance drafting out the story with spontaneous additions. 
> 
>  
> 
> there's also a tiny shout-out to a favorite 90's rock song of mine, major props if you catch it


	60. Lay Bare Your Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of suicide.

The news delivers one blow after another.

People taking their lives in Gotham Heights. Families tearing each other apart with their bare _hands_ in East End. Reports of residents either fleeing their homes with little more than the clothes on their back or barricading themselves in rooms throughout Old Gotham.

Then, to everyone's astonishment...an outbreak of vivid blue flowers.

They weren't flowers, not _truly_ , but nobody's interested in semantics. They're strewn from neighborhood to neighborhood, spanning Old Gotham's old-fashioned architecture to East End's practical urban streets with the thickness of freshly fallen snow. The news camera zooms in on the fluffy tops blossoming from cracks in the sidewalk and bursting out of the sides of buildings. An unexpected symbol of hope in the aftermath of all this death.

 

_"Strange New Plant Sighted. New Weapons?"_

_"Old Gotham Death Rates Stop Abruptly. Psychologists Baffled"_

_"Are The Weeds Bad For Your Health? Locals Think Otherwise"_

 

"Flowers as weapons. Wow." Barbara snorts from where she stands by the kitchen doorway. "They'll say anything for a headline, won't they?"

"I didn't think they'd grow that fast." Blake responds. He hasn't been able to take his eyes off the screen all day. When they weren't shutting of their own volition from random spikes of exhaustion, that is.

Despite the cute blocky furniture and orange cat (insistently rubbing against his leg for attention right now), the déjà vu is _stifling_. There were worse places than Barbara's apartment to recover, sure, but his life has started to feel less like a linear journey and more like an endless loop between running, hiding, recovering and getting up to do it all over again. He tries not to think about it too much and focuses his nervous energy on letting the cat pounce on his fingers.

Blake had been in a terrible state when he showed up on his friend's doorstep. So terrible he didn't properly register it until he was all but _forced_ to wash and eat, despite every bone in his body _screaming_ for him to find his boys. The mental exhaustion and physical strain had him struggling to stand in the shower, much less scrub himself down, and he'd tried to run out the door as naked as the day he was born the moment he was finished.

Despite resting for a few hours his memory's jumbled. He _does_ recall trying to fight Gordon not long after. He might've said some nasty things (no, he definitely did, with the words ' _asshole_ ' and ' _liar_ ' particularly stark in his mind), but the old man doesn't seem to hold it against him. In fact, he's done nothing but check on him all morning long.

"Here." The former Commissioner sets a cup of coffee on the table, just out of reach of the cat. "Remember it's not a replacement for water."

"Trust me..." Blake says with a tired nod. "I won't forget."

It was no mere platitude. Selina had called Barbara not an hour ago to check in. The young woman had been rather excited to hand him the phone, only to grow visibly disturbed when she found Blake holding his entire head under her kitchen's running faucet. Even when he told Barbara he was just trying to clear his head the expression didn't leave her face. She's still looking at him this way from where she's sitting by the television.

He was probably going to have no choice but to get used to looks like that.

" _I was **going** to look for you, but I'm not exactly a dedicated fan of sludge water._ " Selina had huffed -- it was the closest she would get to admitting any sort of worry. " _What the hell were you doing ten feet below ground halfway across the city?_ "

"How the hell did you know I was underground? You're not stalking me, are you?"

" _You're way too much trouble to stalk. No, Bruce has tracking devices in just about everything he owns. Not like the others, but whatever was in that staff he gave you._ "

"He didn't give it to me. Alfred did. It's...a long story." He'd responded. "I'll tell you the whole thing later."

Once he's sure he can string a few sentences together that weren't entirely garbled messes, he tells Barbara and Gordon as much as he can. As much as he can without revealing every last incriminating detail...and as much as he can without losing it.

And, boy, does he want to _lose_ it.

"So the illustrious Dr. Jonathan Crane has finally bit the dust." Gordon reaches up to rub his mustache. "Would've rather taken him in, but at least that's one thing off all our minds, hm?"

"Always looking on the bright side." Blake tries to smile, but it feels just as tired as the rest of him. "And people were always telling me _you_ were a buzzkill."

"So...you also met with Batman?" His voice catches on an old history. "Bruce Wayne?"

Blake doesn't have it in him to chastise Barbara. She apologizes anyway.

"I'm sorry, Blake." She holds his gaze, meaningfully, and it tells him enough. She hasn't told him _everything_ and for that he's grateful. "It was just a lot to take in."

"The last time you were seen in public was when the mythical dark knight gave the public library a visit. I could have deduced _that_ much, at least." Gordon nods at him. "You can bet I'll be telling the department what you did for the city, though."

' _The mask isn't for you._ ' Bruce's words echo in his mind. ' _It's for the people you care about._ '

"Would they believe you?" Blake shrugs and lets the cat gnaw enthusiastically on his thumb. "Besides. I didn't do _any_ of this for the glory. I did it because it's right. Whether they know or not doesn't really matter to me."

Gordon's eyes grow almost...fond. "A real modern-day Batman."

Blake chuckles.

"With your behind-the-scenes work and my granddaughter's... _escapades_..." His bushy brows knot together humorously. Barbara coughs into her shoulder. "...I'm starting to think it's time to hand over responsibility to the next generation."

Blake feels unsteady, an unexpected lurch from the tired haze of the past day and a half. It feels like all he can do just to pretend to be _sane_. More responsibility feels like more than he can take, the word carrying with it nothing but failed efforts and ugly memories. He couldn't save that little girl all the way back when Old Gotham was burning under Crane's toxin. He couldn't save Waylon's fellow prisoners. He couldn't save Reilly. Not when he was sick, or tired, or torn _open_ -

"Hey, hey. Blake, it's okay." Barbara is saying. He doesn't realize he's dropped his cup. It's thankfully empty, instead scattering a few brown drops onto her clean carpet. "It's okay, you're okay."

It hasn't been much time at all since he's been here, but they've already attuned to how fucked up he is. It can't be an easy mystery to figure out, what with his on-and-off appearances over all these messy months, but he appreciates the warm weight of Barbara's hand on his arm.

"I don't mean it that way." Gordon adds. He doesn't reach out to him, not with how skittish he is, but the sympathy in his eyes is enough. "I'm...starting to realize I'm not offering what the city needs. There's no shame in admitting you're not qualified."

Blake and Barbara trade glances. The old man smiles knowingly.

"You two have come a long way." He bats at the cat grumpily when it tries to paw at his sleeve. "Whether you want to trust me or not going forward, I'm proud of you."

"You know, your reappearance could really change things." Barbara squeezes his arm, hopefully. "You could be a symbol, Blake. A symbol of how we need to give people second chances and look beyond the surface. After this whole thing with Foley, then being taken by Batman...this could be spun into something positive. Please think about it. You've been through _so_ much...at least we can make sure everything that's happened can translate into _more_ good."

Maybe. But he was never interested in retiring early. He had to see this through to the end.

"I...don't know." It's too much to think about, the next few weeks or few months. "I'll think about it, but I don't promise anything."

First things first...his boys. Reilly. Bane. Blake mulls over his mental checklist as he stares blandly at the news and lets his aching body throb pleasantly against Barbara's expensive velvet couch -- it was a much shorter list now, something that should cheer him and instead leaves him paranoid. He wishes he had more peace knowing some truly wretched people were permanantly removed from Gotham's future, but the unpredictability of the past few days leaves little other than a sour taste in his mouth.

His boys. Reilly. Bane. His boys. Reilly. ...Bane.

Barbara hands him the phone for the second time not an hour later -- they've all been barricaded inside as they wait for the air to clear. For the first time in what feels like _eons_ his heart clutches with hope. If Bane found Talia maybe this could all, _finally_ , be over. No, not truly _over_ , but to have some closure, anything at all...

" _Blake, it's good to hear your voice._ " Barsad says over the line. It's a bad connection, forcing him to leave the room into the kitchen where it's quieter. The cat bumps against his ankles all the way there, affecting his already pathetic gait. " _I was afraid something had happened._ "

"Something _did_ happen. A lot of somethings. I'm still alive, though." Poor Barsad. He sounds exhausted. It's enough to make him forget his own weariness. "Are you all out of Gotham yet?"

" _We are now. The chaos made it easier, though it wasn't exactly the kind of help I was hoping for._ " Blake's chest tightens when he continues. " _The St. Swithin's orphanage contacted me and I came as soon as I was able._ "

Reilly was taken to the hospital. Barsad sounds utterly ashamed at this admittance, but it was the most reasonable decision he could've taken with the timeframe he was allowed. Treating the old Father in the van, while _possible_ with the League's resources, would have been precarious had they been intercepted along the way. The best option was to get him somewhere that could give him immediate and guaranteed care. He thanks the man, _genuinely_ , and tries not to think about how much blood Reilly had lost.

"Good. Good, that's...a load off my mind." Blake drains the last of the coffee from the pitcher. "I'll catch up with you once I check on my boys. They were in horrible shape. Speaking of which, did you see how Amir was doing? He's the one with dark hair, kind of short. He got bit real bad on his arm. Tiya got roughed up, so did Emanuel, but Amir was losing a lot of blood-"

" _Don't worry about them._ " Barsad says. " _They're safe. In fact, I was about to tell you..._ "

Barbara and Gordon peer into the kitchen at Blake's sudden shout.

"Wait...they're _where?!_ "

\--

A catalogue of human emotion. Fear. Pain. Curiosity. Wonder. Confusion.

Bane straightens his aching back and thinks of how best to address the twenty-six boys (and dog) clustered in the meeting room.

It had been a long walk back to their rendezvous point, a walk that was exacerbated by his need to remain under the least amount of scrutiny possible. It wasn't particularly hard to do with Gotham filled to the brim with distractions far more arresting than he -- the sight of bodies in the streets, bloodless and seemingly isolated incidents, had been a near-identical showing of the deaths that came off the heels of Crane's actions nearly a decade back. Only this time much, _much_ worse.

The death toll was yet to be determined, but he harbored no delusions about the lasting damage. These past few days would be felt for years to come.

Glimpsing the news on his way over revealed more...unusual details. A unique blue flower was sighted throughout Gotham's poorer districts, uncountable and striking against the buildings' black hide. Despite being more than likely a result of Blake and Harleen's work, it was yet _another_ surreal touch on this strange city -- Gotham was ever a living, breathing creature, dynamically shifting according to a whim beyond human comprehension.

A mass of children in the League's temporary hideout would proceed to throw him off a second time.

The toxin's effect has worn off, for the most part, though vestiges of its influence are clear in subtle movements -- how the boys' eyes flick past him at nothing, their antsiness well beyond the bounds of their youth. The still-fresh pain drawn stretch taut across their faces. Over the course of just a few days they've had to contend with their orphanage being damaged, their older brother going missing _and_ their Father being taken to the hospital.

It hurts to see.

Barsad had brought the boys just the prior day as a favor to John -- their neighborhood had been particularly hard hit and they were low on options during the height of the chaos. While they were plenty competant in matters of basic survival, an older member, Finn, had called him and all but _begged_ for his help. It explained why John had suddenly fallen out of contact. One of the last to leave the city, Barsad had taken a few mercenaries and gathered the children up before their last trip out of Gotham.

"It was the least I could do, with their injuries and the state of the district. We had spare masks and scarves, so any exposure to the toxin should be minimal." Barsad had told him once he finished relaying the tale, though Bane could see the fatherly concern as easily as his own two hands. "...They were very well-behaved."

The mountain stronghold was vast and there was more than enough room to accommodate them all. The League has tended to them all the while, treating their injuries and keeping them fed and watered throughout the spare rooms, sick bay and main hall. His second-in-command chose to enlist the assistance of Salim and Anarosa to keep track of the boys' hourly well-being, as they both had personalities warm enough to endear them to a group of scared, injured children. Right now they both stand at the entrance, waiting on Bane's command.

...He's still not sure where to begin.

"Come on." A small voice whispers, agitatedly, cutting into his wandering thoughts. Bane glances over the cluster of heads -- the loud boy with messy hair (Tiya, right) is attempting to egg his peer into action. "Just _say_ it."

Said boy shakes his head vehemently and moves his hands where he believes Bane won't see.

"I'm not saying _anything_." He responds nervously. Tiya and this boy (Jay, yes, he remembers now) were seemingly inseparable. The latter was deaf, that much was clear, though whether profoundly or mostly he was yet unsure. "Finn should do it. He's older."

Bane scans the group for Finn. He finds the young man holding Joel in his arms and staring at him cautiously. The tiny boy, on the other hand, looks exhausted, barely awake and holding onto his big brother's neck with a slack grip.

The masked man raises his fist and clears his throat.

"Amir is safe."

One boy sits up in shock. The others shuffle from foot-to-foot, as if debating whether or not they should make a run for it. A handful of the younger ones look up at their peers eagerly, for confirmation on this good news or to speak, perhaps, but the teenagers remain guarded. Bane is fascinated by this subtle display of family. This fascination, sadly, doesn't translate into words.

"You're safe as well."

"...We want to see him." Finn's voice shakes, but there's authority behind it. A few of the other boys inch closer to him, even as their faces are crinkled with fear. Simultaneously fearing his boldness and seeking him out for protection. "It's almost been a day since..."

"Once he is stabilized, you may." Bane says, softening his voice in an attempt to seem less threatening. It doesn't have the effect he intended. They actually seem _more_ on-edge now -- as stiff as a family of rabbits beneath the gaze of a hawk. He tries to think of what he learned from Verónica. Sometimes children were much more difficult to predict than adults.

"Is he..." Tiya starts, loud enough for his voice to echo, and he cringes in surprise. Jay puts a hand on his shoulder. He tries again, softer this time. "...um. Is he g-going to b-be okay?"

"Yes." Bane nods. "The wound showed minor infection, but antibiotics and surgery have seen it cleared. Our biggest concern was the amount of blood he lost. He may need therapy to remain full control of his arm, but as of right now he's in no further danger." Again, the relief he expects to see is instead mingled with a dozen other reactions. Dark eyes and bright eyes flick back and forth in a flurry of familial worry.

"Ohh. His art..." A tall, gangly young man is whispering. He looks to be Finn's age. Emanuel, he believes, next to Jai. Another inseparable pair. The others begin to murmur in concern. Amir's artistic prowess was not just well-known, it was deeply supported. Warmth blooms throughout Bane's chest at their clear love for their brother.

Trevor gets to her feet and limps up to him -- she'd been bitten badly on her right leg, but an impromptu shaving job and series of stitches showed promise for a healthy recovery. Bane watches as she sniffs his jacket, then his pant leg, then his hand, eventually nuzzling his fingers for further attention. After a hesitant moment he reaches down and rubs behind her ears.

The boys gape at him, then mutter to each other.

"So, uh...how do you know Blake...?" Finn asks -- his tone is wary, testy, but not outright angry. All the boys slowly turn from their whispering back to Bane. "Because we heard about what you did."

It's the magic word, it seems, because John jogs into the room not a moment later. The room goes dead silent. Yearning clutches Bane's heart as true as any fist as the detective limps into view, then stumbles to a stop in his shock. Barbara appears next to him a second later, immediately clutching both hands to her mouth.

"Oh my god..." John whispers, hoarsely, hands raising to clutch his hair in a display of dizzy relief. "Oh my _god_ , I was so fucking worried, I-"

He stops talking, abruptly, when he sees Bane. The look in his eyes...

" _Blake!_ "

The uneasy mood shatters. The detective wobbles unsteadily as they flood him in a rush, then he all but falls backward as he's hugged en masse. Trevor barks and hops on three legs, swaying precariously as her tail swings back and forth. Finn hangs back a little as each boy gets a tight hug, though his face is quivering with emotion. Joel is starting to wake up in the hubbub, twitching and sniffling against his shoulder.

Barbara is laughing and trying to pull Trevor back, to no avail, and is saying something Bane can't make out to Finn. The young man glances his way, then murmurs a response in her ear.

"You keep _worrying_ us." Tiya is crying, joy and pain shrilling his voice. "You're gonna make me grow gray hairs before I'm fourteen!"

"They have a whole _hideout_ here, Blake. It's crazy." Emanuel says. "Did you know this was out here the whole time?"

"I did. Hey, first things first. Amir's going to be okay. Reilly is in the hospital right now being treated..." John is saying, only to look confused at their lack of surprise.

"They have already been informed." Bane interjects. The room grows quiet again. John blinks up at him over the cluster of heads.

"Oh. Good." There's tension in his eyes, but it's reigned back. Likely for the boys' benefit rather than his own. The masked man finds even that clipped response making him strangely lightheaded. John is safe. He's safe and alive and _here_.

There are old and fresh bruises on his face (one around his nose, a vivid shadow, makes him clench with shame). His clothes are clean -- a borrowed brown coat from one of the League members -- and he can tell by the way he's favoring his _other_ leg he'd sustained a painful, but not serious, recent injury. There's a clarity in his eyes he doesn't remember seeing in a while. There's also pain. Raw exhaustion. If he can see it even through John's best attempts to put on a stable show for the boys, it's no doubt far, _far_ worse.

Bane has to will down the _very_ selfish urge to push past the boys and pull him into his arms.

"Good girl, good _girl-_ " John coos when Trevor laps at his face with a bright pink tongue. "We have matching limps now, huh? Phew, your breath-"

Bane rolls his shoulders, idly, and watches in silence -- it's not easy to do, now with _another_ area of his back sectioned off. He'll let himself be irritated somewhere out of sight.

John has gotten to his feet again and turned to him, mouth set in a hard line with questions in his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, only to have his attention abruptly turned when Joel reaches out for him. Finn kneels and sets the boy on the floor. The detective lowers back down (favoring his ankle with a mild wince) and holds his arms out. Joel stops just a foot away, nervously wringing his hands and looking past him. Blake glances over his shoulder at Bane, then back.

"You remember Behnam, don't you?" He asks, gently. Joel rubs his eyes.

"Um. That's Bane."

"Yeah."

"Why...why is he called Behnam if he's actually Bane?"

"I didn't want to startle any of you when we..." Bane can already sense the complicated omission. "...met. It's a long story, but I'll tell you all about it once you're settled. You don't have anything to worry about. He's more than what you see on television."

"Holy _shit._ " Finn says, faintly, and turns to Barbara. "That's the same _guy?_ "

"Yeah, I freaked out, too." She responds with a twist to her mouth. John shoots her an apologetic look. 

" _That's_ why he never took his helmet off..." Jai mutters to his peer, rubbing his face with both hands as if furiously embarrassed. "I'm an idiot."

"Is...is..." Joel stammers. The youngest member can't seem to figure out how to follow this new information. "...is he _good_ , though?"

"Yeah. He's a good man." It's a strange sensation Bane feels at those words, one he belatedly recognizes as...relief. Then John adds, rather drily. "He's also a _huge_ pain in the ass."

Bane raises both eyebrows at that, but it seems to have been the right thing to say. One of the boys lets slip a giggle. Another follows. Soon they're all chuckling and smiling (even stout Anarosa is having trouble holding back a grin from where she leans against the wall by her peer). It's the disarming effect needed for Joel to walk up and hug the detective tightly around the neck, though he stares up over his shoulder at him with large, dark eyes. Bane holds his gaze and, to his surprise, Joel doesn't break it.

"Bane is a good cook." The child mumbles with astonished weariness. "That's so _weird_."

"Joel's got a point. This is _really_ weird, Blake." Finn says into the silence. "Like...probably the weirdest shit ever."

"Language, Finn." John lets out a tired laugh and nuzzles Joel's curly hair. "But, yeah. It is."

"Can we get something to eat?" Jai asks, followed by an enthusiastic nod by Emanuel. "I mean, they've been feeding us, but I feel like I could eat a horse."

"Yeah. Of course."

"Can we talk to Reilly?" Tiya pipes up. "Do we even have reception here?"

"When are we going home?" Joel squeaks.

"Uh, Bane...?" John starts, a flash of that deep, deep exhaustion flickering on his face. "Can you...?"

He doesn't need to finish. The masked man promptly turns to go fetch a few of his mercenaries and assign them their unconventional tasks. Khalil for food, Sawan to look over their sleeping quarters, perhaps. On his way out he tells Salim to help make Barbara comfortable (and to keep her _well_ away from more sensitive locations until he could fully attest to her trustworthiness personally). The sniper nods, attentively, but he's unnaturally quiet as he leads the young woman out of the hall.

"So." The Commissioner's granddaughter says before they vanish out of sight. "How'd _you_ get caught up in all this?"

"Um." Salim swallows once, then twice, before answering. "I-I'm Salim. I mean, um. Long story, it's a long story..."

Bane shakes his head and takes his leave. He's had a few tastes of this mundanity before, but this was still firmly outside his comfort zone. He was going to need help. The only shame in that fact is that it took him so long to become honest with it.

\--

Amir is still resting in their sick bay. It's a small enclave stationed near one of their emergency exits, both for the closer proximity to fresh air as well as to ensure a fast escape should their hideout become compromised. Bane has taken it upon himself to check on the boy's health to make up for his absence (though Barsad assures him his guilt is misplaced). The masked man didn't take well to idleness, even idleness born of injury, and he would catch up as furiously as necessary until he felt right again.

He only pauses in front of the sick bay door when he hears John's voice.

"Don't worry about that. How are you holding up?"

"...m'okay."

"You don't sound okay. Come on. Talk to me."

"...It's...it's just. They said I might not move my arm the same way again." He can tell the boy is holding back tears. His words arrive thick and slow, as if they're ready to overflow any second. "M-my drawing arm."

"Hey, give it time." A soft _rustle_. John has likely moved to sit on the bed. "Therapy will help you draw like you used to again. People do it all the time."

"But I have an art show. I don't wanna miss it." A soft hiccup. "My portfolio isn't even done and I couldn't bring all my...m-my drawings a-and..."

"Oh, hey...hey. Come here, it's okay." Amir was a reticent child. It said something about how much he was hurting when his voice becomes strained, as if he's pressed against something. "It's okay. You can always make more. You got time."

His arm, his neighborhood, then his Father. Bane considers how he would handle his tears. Nothing like John's soothing words, he admits, something more practical (and probably more unhelpful). The thought alone embarrasses him.

"It's scary." John continues, voice so low Bane has to lean forward to hear. "I know. I got shot, too. Here and here." A short pause. "My limp will probably be permanent. It's not just fighting I have to mind it, either. When I walk, when I sit down. Even when I sleep."

"Were you scared...?" Amir asks, sniffling hard.

"Yeah. Yeah, I was. I mean, I can't imagine anyone gets excited when they're shot. Unless they really want scars to show off at the bar." They share a laugh, but it's brief.

"What if I can't draw like I used to..." His voice quivers again. "Maybe I won't do art shows anymore."

Now _this_ is something he knows. Without further ado Bane lifts his hand and drums a soft _rap-rap_ on the door.

"Come in."

Amir clutches the blanket to his chest when Bane steps inside. He had always been more attentive to the news. Whereas the other boys either paid closer attention to the major events or glimpsed videos here and there, he studied with rapt attention. He was more overwhelmed by Bane's appearance in his life, this much was clear, and he takes note of this detail as he makes his way to the medical equipment tucked beside the cot.

"He's worried about his arm." John starts. He tries to hold back a smile when Amir shoots him a quelling look. It's a more mundane gesture, like he just said something embarrassing at the dinner table in front of one of his friends.

"That is only natural. He was dealt a severe blow." Bane murmurs as he starts to check the boy's blood pressure. He's mindful not to be as curt when he motions for him to lift his uninjured arm. When the kid just continues to gawk at him nervously he adds, gently, "...I won't hurt you, Amir."

Trembling visibly he holds his arm out. He shakes all the while as Bane wraps the cuff around his arm and presses the stethoscope to his artery. The boy's trauma was still fresh, fresh enough they weren't fully processing the changes it would have on their life. It was within the first few days of a painful event that influence was at its most stark. He carefully considers how he can aid the inner healing process as he squeezes the bulb and watches the dial waver.

"I, too, have had to reconcile with the aftermath of injuries and the effects they would have on my life." Bane begins. John is watching him, feeling along his left forearm absentmindedly. It's where Bane stitched him up after his second run-in with the alligator man. There's appreciation in his gaze, but like all of their interactions thus far, it's dimmed.

"...you have?" Amir asks. Bane's heart clenches hopefully. It's an olive branch. A tiny one, but still.

"Yes." He recognizes his lagging small talk and adds, hesitantly, "...many."

"What...kind?" His gaze darts about as he searches for more words. "Like...what kind of injuries?"

"Cuts. Burns. Blunt force trauma. The onset of nerve damage. I live with pain every day and some days are worse than others. One of the worst prevented me from moving for many months." He sets down his equipment (a healthy blood pressure, all in all) and gestures to his broad back, moving his hand down to span his entire torso. Distraction was another tool he was familiar with. "Would you like to see?"

"Y-Yeah. Okay." A new (albeit still cautious) eagerness enters his voice. His eyes follow Bane as he leans off the chair and rises, turning around and shrugging his shirt all the way up to his shoulders. Amir's eyes widen into circles. " _Woah_." He whispers, half in horror and half in empathy. "How did that even happen?"

"I was tortured." Bane says, simply, and the scar vanishes beneath his shirt as he pulls it down again. "I will spare you the details, but I received it many years ago. I was in bed for months, then received intensive physical therapy for months. The mental scars were... _are_ more longstanding. It was a difficult time."

"Did you..." He begins, then frowns, trying to sort out his thoughts. It's clear he has a million questions and wants to vent them all at once, just like his big brother. "Did you ever worry you won't be able to do things again...?"

John's brow twists a little, the only hint of emotion across an otherwise impassive expression. Memories of his gentle, considerate touch during idle moments flit throughout Bane's mind. Unmoved by trauma...still warm.

"You fear you will lack the ability to draw like you used to." Bane says. Now John visibly winces. Perhaps he thinks it too blunt of an approach to take with such a delicate topic. Amir, however, simply nods. His eyes start to shine and he blinks them back as subtly as he can. The masked man sits by the bed and hunches forward on his elbows to better observe him. "A journey down a different path is still a journey you are taking. Do not mistake a misstep for the end."

Amir looks at his cast, then back to him. "But...I can't draw. Probably for a long time."

"You have another hand."

"I can't draw with my _left_."

"Have you tried?"

"Yeah. It sucks."

The corners of Bane's eyes crinkle in a silent laugh.

"How do you know so much about art when you kill people for a living?" Amir asks with the bold curiosity Bane has come to associate with children of all stripes. He tips his head in a shrug.

"I wear many hats."

"Did you make that mask?"

"Yes."

"How long did it take?"

"Do you stall for time because you fear failure, Amir?"

Amir seems surprised, then mortified, then accepting. "...Sure, I...guess so..."

"It is life that informs our art, Amir, and art informs life. What you are viewing as an impediment to your craft is actually an enhancement. You draw your inspiration from the city, yes?" The boy nods. "How would it have changed had you grown up in another neighborhood? In Metropolis, even?"

"I'd probably draw a lot of fanart of Superman." Amir says with a small shrug on his good shoulder. "Or something like that."

"Possibly." Bane nods, pleased, and reaches over to pick up his sketchbook. "While you recover from your wound, there are entire paths you have not yet wandered down. Perhaps you will be surprised with what your left hand has to say."

They both watch as Amir tries to settle his uninjured hand properly over the paper. Frustration is already starting to darken his gaze, but he proceeds, moving the pen with trembling, yet determined strokes. Bane's eyes glide up and down the paper. It's a confident motion, even still, one fed strong by years of effort. Only once does he look away, when he feels John's gaze on him, and he catches it briefly before it snaps back to the drawing.

"You're doing great." The detective says, chin in one hand. "Way better than what I can do."

"That's because you never draw." The boy responds, wisely. "If you did I'm sure you could have your own art show, too."

"Cigarette butt sculptures, maybe?" He barks a laugh when Amir wrinkles his nose. "Worth a shot. So, what're you drawing?"

"Well, I _tried_ to draw a bird." Amir blows out a sigh. "Yeah. It sucks."

"From this angle..." Bane reaches forward to turn the drawing a little to the right. "...it looks much like a fish."

John gives him an odd look. It's clear he doesn't agree with this strategy, either, but he doesn't protest. Amir frowns and stares down at the paper. He shifts it this way and that, studying it intently. Then his eyes slowly widen.

"...It _does_." He blinks up at Bane. "It does?" He pushes it at the detective. "Hey, Blake, what does it look like to you?"

"Uh." John blinks back, a little startled. "Hm. It...it looks like Southside Stadium. You know, the one that hosted hockey matches before it was shut down five years ago? It's got this curve to it..." He pauses, then rubs his hair when he's just greeted with a pair of blank stares. "...I mean. To me it does."

Amir doesn't seem to mind. If anything he's perked up now, pulling the pad back into his lap and attempting another drawing. Even as he sketches his eyes are darting back and forth along the page, turning the paper from side-to-side, trying to figure out what other hidden secrets could be found before it's even done. Bane is both proud and relieved, and he takes advantage of the lull in conversation to consider these unusual feelings.

He checks the IV and provides another dose of painkillers that Amir takes without complaint. Even though John is sitting across from him (reaching over to take his hand would go right through Amir's line of sight while he's drawing, a decent enough excuse), the way the detective keeps glancing at him from time-to-time with an expression just shy of surprised warms him all the way to his soul.

"You know..." He starts, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Amir drew you."

" _Blake!_ " The kid hisses, horrified. John grins and holds up his hands in instant defeat. "Oh, come on...he doesn't need to _know_..."

Bane's eyes flick back and forth between them, alight with curiosity.

"Don't tease him." He chides, gently. Amir seems grateful for the out and stares at his drawing with intense focus. This is likely a good time for him to leave and give them some space, so he reminds Amir to get some rest soon and makes his way to the door, John taps Bane's wrist before he leaves, mouthing where the boy can't see.

' _Thank you._ '

\--

The children sign Amir's cast a few hours later, when Bane is changing his bandages under the haze of painkillers. It had been a warm spot on a quiet and unsteady evening, their chatter almost as lively as it would be under the orphanage's roof as they scrawled their names and funny (sometimes crude) drawings to cheer up their brother.

Much to Bane's surprise Amir asked him to add his own touch. The boys had kept a little distance, but not out of a lack of interest. In fact, they had peered up at him like a cluster of hens as Bane drew a rendition of Gotham Tower. He'd never forgotten Amir's loving interpretations of the city, so he was more than a little pleased to see the boy's eyes light up with inspiration once he was done, turning his arm this way and that to observe the sketch.

"Woah." He'd started to touch it, then pulled his hand back. "You never told me you were good at _drawing_ , too."

"'Good' is subjective." Bane responded, though he'd smiled nonetheless. Children's honesty was a gift he would never stop appreciating.

Before he left one of the boys had touched him on the shoulder. It'd startled him, mostly for the very careful distance they've maintained ever since the reveal of his true identity (and even when he'd pretended to be an odd stranger in a red helmet). Jay had pulled out a notepad, wrinkled and worn with use, and hastily written something down.

" _Thanks for helping cheer him up_." it said, with a smiling face at the end. " _I was really worried he'd be too depressed to draw again._ "

Bane finds John in the washroom when he goes to scrub off the day's efforts. Judging by the pallor to his skin he's lingered for some time, despite the cold water, and he doesn't speak to him beyond a simple greeting as he undresses and washes. The masked man has to actively will himself not to linger on the pleasant twitch of John's ass as the man dries off and puts on a borrowed pair of jeans. By how snugly they fit, they likely came from Salim.

Then he sees the heavy bruising on his stomach just before he slides on a long-sleeved shirt (still purple, no doubt still hurting). Bane turns his gaze away with a fresh wave of guilt and lets the past few days' separation build a silent wall between them. He straps on his back brace, takes time shaving his head and says little as John lingers with his own necessities. He sits and lets the water run once he's through getting dressed, staring at it like he's never seen anything of the sort. Although Bane is loathe to waste it, he allows it just this once. 

"...Barbara and Salim are getting along pretty well." He remarks as Bane tucks away the shaving cream and straps his mask back into place.

"Good." He murmurs. "I noticed the same."

"She's adjusting pretty quickly to this, really. I knew she would, but it's...nice to see."

"Understandable."

John seems to catch himself and hastily turns the water back off. It soon grows quiet again. They had spoken just a few hours ago, yet it feels the part of a reunion all over again, neither of them seeming to know how to navigate this once-familiar ground. It may be late, but others may need to use the room. Bane finishes up and gets to his feet.

"...I didn't properly thank you." John says as they take their leave, wiping stray water off the back of his neck.

"I need none." Bane gathers his coat and arm brace before turning off the light. "This was predominantly Barsad's doing."

"Would you just let me say it? It needs to be said." He stands to attention when John snaps, sharp as a knifepoint. "What the _hell_ happened, anyway? Barsad told me Bruce stabbed you..." The twist to his mouth makes it plain the irony of the statement isn't lost on him. "Then he took Alfred and Talia..."

"Yes...he did." The memory prickles, still bright with anger, but he affects his tone coolly. "Talia had infected him with the toxin just before I arrived."

"But...how? I _told_ him all the ways it could spread."

"Apparently it can even be used on the lips." The rare desire to dwell rises to the surface. He could've stepped in. He could've acted sooner. He _could've_...

"Sounds like something she'd try." John's harsh sigh distracts him. "Are _you_ okay, though? A knife in the back is one of the worst possible places..." He looks past him, then, as if to somehow figure out his wound beyond his line of sight. Bane's grateful for the reprieve.

"I'm fine." He says, warmed by the open concern on his behalf. "Little to worry about."

He doesn't _mean_ to brush away the detective's concerns -- Bane had just been graced with a rare spot of luck and had the knife miss his vitals, making a painful but ultimately manageable wound -- but he senses his wrongdoing even before John tenses up.

"Okay. Got it."

"John, I didn't-"

"No, I _get_ it. You decide what's a big deal and what's not."

Bane bristles...then pulls down the instinctive ire. Damn it all. His intent wasn't important, his sweet nothings even less so.

"It healed cleanly." He says, carefully, desperate not to lose the bridge they've begun to built. "The armor helped. I was also fortunate enough to be tended to by an experienced nurse."

"A nurse?"

"Yes. Retired, actually. They found me and...tended to me."

John's gaze flicks up and down, thought-quick and inscrutable. Then he abruptly turns around and stalks down the stone tunnel. Bane is unsure whether or not to follow. Only when he hears the man pause, just outside the black, does he go after him.

"...I was worried." He says when he catches up. "Okay? Just...worried."

"So was I." He wonders if he's being specific enough, then decides he needs to be _more_ frank, not less. "St. Swithin's was in an alarming state, from what I heard. Something important must have gotten between you and your boys for you to leave."

"Yeah. Waylon and his...friends."

Through the length of their walk Bane finds out why his tone is so strange.

Crane was dead. Indisputably so. He's only sorry he wasn't the one to see to it. Pamela's work was still spreading and lifting toxin and pollutants alike from the air, a combination of those blue flowers and a stimulant injected into any and all plants and trees in the air. He relays these facts as if reciting the weather. Anyone else would confuse it for the drone of exhaustion (indeed, that must be part of it), but Bane knows he simply viewed it all as a plain necessity.

He also learns about the pain that's hovered in his eyes all night. The alligator man was originally a human man named Waylon Jones, one of many victims of scientific experimentation for still-unknown causes. There were others, reduced to near-animals, and in a situation John couldn't have possibly helped he had no choice but to kill every last one.

The detective always treated death as a last resort. This wouldn't be like Foley, nor like the gang member he shot during their escape from The Bowery. This was a consequence that would haunt him for a long time, perhaps forever. Although Bane had long since grown used to his own bloody hands, he feels nothing but wretched sympathy for the man.

"Who knows. Maybe there was no way to help them and I'm just dwelling over nothing." A low sigh. "...Maybe."

Bane stares at the stiff line to his back, though the dark has started to swallow them both as they move further from the lanterns perched along the walls and deeper into the mountain's underbelly. Soon the tunnel would split into two, the right path snaking down to reveal an array of small rooms for his men and the left toward his own abode.

"I was lucky Barbara was home. Gordon was there, too. The only reason I didn't come here sooner was because I was kind of a mess." A bitter laugh. "Only reason they didn't take me to a psych ward is because they're full up."

He almost runs into him when John suddenly stops walking. Not quite.

"John...?" He reaches out to touch him, maybe hold him steady, and pauses when his fingertips brush his shirt.

"...I can't _stand_ it." His voice is faint, facing away from him to stare down the tunnel. "I can't...fuck, I was so worried about you, Bane. How many times have I thought you were going to die? How many..."

As if possessed Bane reaches out and slides his hands along his arms, feeling through the dark, and eats away at the negligible distance between them.

" _Fuck._ " His voice is coarse. "We _fought_ and I almost didn't even get to say goodbye if something happened to you."

"You were angry. You did what you had to."

"There you go _again_ , telling me what to feel."

" _Damn_ you, John." He turns him around now, even though he knows the man can barely see him. "Enough. You have better to do with your time than regret for _me._ "

"Nothing'll fucking change unless I tear myself into pieces over it!" His voice becomes muffled, because he's now pressing his face to Bane's neck in-between words. John is so _warm_ , his breath dusts his neck in heaving strokes, and Bane can't decide if he wants to hold him or clutch him or- "And I _need_ this to change, Bane, I need it because I don't know how much more I can take."

"Then why return? I _told_ you this could end, if you only wished it, I would never think to drag you back here against your will..."

"What the hell?" His posture becomes rigid as steel. "I wouldn't just ditch you in the middle of all this."

"I'm trying to _understand_ , John, I want what's best for you-"

"It's not just about _me_ , Bane, it's about you, too, about _us_ -"

"Stubborn." Bane closes his eyes. His fingers dig into the man's back of their own volition. "You..."

As sure as any unstoppable force, the wall between them shatters and everything happens at once.

Their boots scratch noise from the smooth floor as they suddenly wrestle for purchase. Bane lets his coat and brace slip from the crook of his arm to fall at his feet so he can better box John up against the wall. John feels down his biceps, along his chest, appreciative little squeezes that melt away his caution into something more cocksure. He flexes his arms surreptitiously and enjoys how the detective's breath shudders with longing.

Even back when the storm drains were intact and he thought him little more than an over-hyped thug John had always struggled to hold back his attraction. They would spar, they would talk, but his eyes were ever sly, always wandering when he thought he couldn't see. Bane never thought overmuch as to his own attractiveness. He never had a need to. Not with his occupation or his mask. It had been, admittedly, rather intriguing.

Bane had always known better than to take advantage of the compromised consent of a prisoner. Now everything between them is different.

He allows himself a few idle moments to let the detective paw hungrily up and down his torso. Then he _eagerly_ follows his example, trailing down the familiar paths along John's body. The taut muscle of his stomach tightens when he pushes his shirt up and greedily scrapes fingers down his sides and his hips. He's more sinewy muscle, not as lean as when they first met. He feels the bumpy knot along his hip where he'd been shot. Tempers his touch when John's breath hitches, an echo of the scattered bruises.

Also new, and much less pleasant, is that there are no playful jibes to goad him into some sort of response. No flirtatious quips to catch him off guard. He's still angry with him. He's quiet.

John bites harder than normal. Snaps of his jaw that dig into his flesh and just barely keep the skin from slicing open. It's only once he kisses his throat, right along where the curve meets his collarbone, and it's fleeting, that deeper affection he had grown almost careless with now hastily wrenched back. Bane tries to seek it out. He threads his fingers through his hair and rubs the front of his mask down his cheek and up along his ear. As tender as he can be while going wild with lust.

The detective doesn't kiss him again. Even turns his face away, though the response bulging his jeans betrays his interest.

"John..."

His own voice feels foreign. A single word has somehow become flayed, barely comprehensible yet bleeding out more meaning than he can siphon back. The detective's entire body stiffens, as if he's crossed a line, but the crack in the silence can only spread.

"I'm sorry."

John pauses, then lets out a short sigh through his nose and pushes a hand against his stomach. He thinks he's had enough of him, but no, he's yanking at the straps on his belt. Bane pushes a hand against the wall to better lean over him, so hard he can barely think, and adjusts his mask as quickly as he can with the other right as John tugs the front of his pants open and drops to his knees.

His hips twitch in little agonized fits as he goes about mouthing and licking everywhere but where he _needs_. Nibbling his hipbone, kissing around the hair around his balls. One of his hands even wanders back around and palms his ass, another pleasant surprise to muse over later. When John exposes his straining cock to the air he drags a burning tongue along the tip with such cruel slowness Bane's stunned he doesn't come then and there.

The detective is testing him. Pushing his self-control to its limit and letting it teeter unreliably, daring him to make the plunge and make him pull away again. Bane deserves this. He _knows_ he deserves this. So he drags his nails against the wall and swallows back every frustrated sound trying to bubble to the surface, his other hand twisting into the back of John's shirt as he waits through each ponderous touch as jarring as the prick of a needle.

Finally, _finally_ , John's tongue lifts the tip of his cock into his mouth. Slides a little more in and caresses the underside in slow circles. Bane moves his now-shaking hand up the back of his neck, not pushing him, not yet, even though he _needs_ to press in and fuck the man's throat raw. He strokes where the hair grows thin and downy. Not pleading. Dangerously close.

John leans down further and levels his neck to pull in every last inch, until his lips are ghosting along his abdomen and, _damn it_ , Bane would fully lose his mind now. Every bob of his throat, every swallow, is a hot, wet, _sweet_ kiss. It soaks and spreads throughout him like smoke, blurring the pain of his damaged nerves and drawing out brazen, shameless sounds even his mask is unable to muffle. The still-healing wound in his back pulses unheeded.

The soft _snip_ of a zipper and John's hand steadies on his hip to better reach down between his legs. He's never seen him pleasure himself. Bane wants nothing more than to watch, growling his frustration only to heave out another groan as John continues to drink him down. His balls are growing tight, the itch of his climax clawing through him and demanding he _move_. He stills. He waits.

His patience doesn't go unnoticed. John squeezes his hip in a small but unmistakable affirmation. The masked man leans in carefully at first, even as the animal part of his brain sings at the chance to finally move. Bane rocks into the brilliant heat of his mouth, not caring at the occasional scrape of teeth, instead focusing on the moan he can _feel_ rather than hear building deep in the back of the detective's throat. He twists his dark hair, pulls, relishes in how the sound grows deeper and vibrates his cock into swelling.

He wants to drag it out for as long as possible. Even barely seeing the top of his head, it's the _way_ he leans into each thrust, swallows him in earnest, as if _all_ of him still isn't enough. Bane reaches down to cradle John's head in both hands, petting his hair as he grinds forward with hitching, erratic movements.

John lets out a plaintive _moan_ and drags nails down his hips-

-and he's coming, _hard_ , a release so sweet he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out as he empties himself into John's mouth. The detective tolerates it, briefly, then pushes against his hip, urges him off, and he has just enough presence of mind to lean back and slip out. The man swallows audibly and coughs, reaches up to wipe hurriedly at his mouth and neck. Bane drags him to his feet by the back of his shirt and pushes him onto the stone wall.

The detective is painfully stiff, cock flushed and straining toward his stomach. He can just see his tongue running along his lower lip to catch the rest threatening to dribble down his chin. The sight stirs an aggression that starts to seep through the euphoria. A craze that simmers in his blood. The analgesic in his mask could be made of water for how desperately he needs this man.

John reaches down to touch himself again. It's a promising concept, but Bane _needs_ to pleasure him. Apologize and soothe through touch.

"Let me, love." Bane murmurs into his ear. "For now, let me."

The detective's breath flutters in his chest, as aroused as he is impatient. It slowly grows careful. Measured. He pulls his hands back and leans against the wall.

He can hardly help the tenderness turning him fragile, nor would he bother trying. Hot, honest affection blisters him apart as he presses the cold front of his mask against his cheek in lieu of a kiss. Then Bane runs two fingers along his bottom lip in a silent request. John seems to suffer this touch, mouth firmly closed and an almost sullen slant to his mouth...then he feels it slacken. He pulls in his fingers and runs his tongue along them, sucking softly, much softer than a minute prior.

Bane wants to bend him over and grind his way inside him. Instead he inches the man's pants down further, enough that he can reach beneath him and up to rub his now-slick fingers between his cheeks. John makes an interesting little sound, something choked yet earnest, and it's clear he's attempting to cut off any noise and deprive him of the luxury. The masked man lets out a smug _hum_ into his still-damp hair. He could try all he wants. Bane knows exactly what makes him scream.

A soft hiss escapes through John's teeth when Bane curls a finger up and forward to pet him from the inside. Rolling the pad of his finger in impromptu patterns, lazy circles and slow lines until John is panting like he's winded. He nudges in a second, a little slower, the slick not _quite_ enough even as he can feel the detective insistently leaning down. So he presses into his prostate, _pushes_ into it, and John responds by immediately writhing, helpless little twists of his hips that travel the length of his body. His ass is oven hot and Bane's own loins stir again with desire.

The warmth building within him all but sears when John's eyes flutter closed and he drops his forehead onto his shoulder. He strokes harder, almost bruising into him, rewarded by a thin whine that carries like music in the tunnel. _Still_ trying to stay quiet. Bane loathes the silence. He suddenly pulls out (ignoring John's gasp) and glides fingers over his cock. Hardly more than a feather-light touch, just enough to catch the steady drip that's been dotting the ground, and uses it to better thrust two fingers back in as deep as they can go.

" _Mmph._ "

Bane scrapes mercilessly at that little bump of tissue, pulling at his orgasm like thread from a knot. John hits his forehead against him again, grinds it into his shoulder, suddenly clenching around him as tight as a glove.

"Stop...stop...! Just, _fuck-_ " The break in the silence is sweeter than any climax. "Oh, fuck-"

He pulls out to slide a hand up his twitching cock and catch his release in one hand as John bucks through an orgasm that almost seems to hurt him. Bane has never been on the receiving end, but the clear rapture that's overwhelming the detective makes it an arresting thought, indeed. Then he slumps, so sudden Bane has to hook both arms around him to hold him steady.

They linger in the dark tunnel for long, frozen minutes, the only sounds petting the walls their weary breathing.

"...John." Bane murmurs into his hair, holding him as firmly as he can while still giving him breathing room. "I want you near." He pets the bangs clinging to his forehead. "Lay with me."

John hasn't moved all the while. As if jerked back to attention he suddenly reaches down with shaky hands to fumble his pants and belt back in place. Bane does the same, even as he wants to tear off his mask and press their mouths together again. Keep him close with savage teeth and greedy hands. John still doesn't speak. In their aftermath lust is replaced by something more raw.

"Lay with me." Bane says, again, and he doesn't need to see John's face to know the effect these words have on him. "... _Please_."

Moments tick by, measured by the heart hammering against his chest, the breath stuttered vulnerable and warm over the broad expanse of his shoulder. Then he tugs back. That simple motion almost lays waste to Bane's willpower. He has to stop himself from holding onto his arm, pulling him back and keeping him where he _needs_ to be.

"I need to..." John swallows audibly and gestures into the dark. "I just need to...my boys are...I'll...I'll be back, all right?"

Bane stares as he hurries down the right hall and vanishes into the furthest stretch of darkness.

 

\--

The night winds down to an unusual, but not unpleasant, close.

Barsad and Anarosa both insist on checking his wound, though just as Rosario predicted, it's healing well. It throbs just beyond the bounds of his mask, alongside his bruised ribs, but it's nothing compared to the ache in his chest. He's quiet as they talk about the day's events and discuss the state of the children. They notice his reservation, but know better than to press.

When they're finished he's greeted with nearly _all_ of his members, clustered together down the stretch of the hall. At first he's alarmed, but they proceed to kneel in a gesture as old as the League itself. A sign of their gratitude. The last time he saw such a thing was when he was still serving under Ra's and Talia had still never been to Gotham.

Bane returns it with an incline of his head, even as his heart rejects it soundly.

Most of the boys have settled into the main room with blankets and sleeping bags, though a few have asked to keep Amir company. Salim has taken it upon himself to look after them nigh-constantly, and, in turn, they grow visibly fond of him. He bears their questions with unmitigated glee and even lets one of the boys hold his rifle (though not without unloading it first). It's only when Barbara's in the room does his casual cheer become almost boyish, hanging on her every word not unlike some of the younger members.

"Can you do me a favor?" Barbara asks Bane in passing -- the young woman planned on returning to Gotham alongside the boys and has already taken it upon herself to be their caretaker. Judging by how relaxed they are around her, this is a role she's donned before. Salim hardly leaves her side in the meeting room, though he does an impressive job of _appearing_ busy as he plays with the dog. Trevor is tugging on a knot of rope, her already hearty size threatening to topple the mercenary over. Her growls are enthusiastic, yet clearly playful.

"Depends on what that is." He responds.

"Don't ask too much of Blake right now. He's not doing well and..." Her gaze becomes hard, nothing that could make his spine quail but a generous effort nonetheless. "...and _whatever_ you need from him can probably wait 'til he's in a better place. He was a mess when he showed up on my doorstep and I'm _99%_ sure he's still hallucinating from all the toxin in the air." She checks to make sure the boys are distracted, then leans in and lowers her voice. "He kept dunking his head under my faucet."

"I see." He offers, simply. Crane's victims often complained of being endlessly thirsty. It was a troubling side-effect, but he sees no reason to worry her further.

"Just go easy on him." She finishes. "Okay? Don't have him running out on any epic quests if you can just ask someone else."

"I'm glad to see your priorities are in order. At least, concerning this, we are on the same page." Bane observes the boys talking quietly on the opposite end of the room. "We're all here to heal."

"We've always been on a similar page, to be honest." Barbara clarifies with a raised finger. "You're just _much_ fonder of violence than I am."

"Oh, of this I have little doubt." John would appreciate him taking the time to build comaraderie with her. Bane, however, has never been one to resist the urge to provide a reminder of who's in charge. "...Batgirl."

It's hard to say whether Salim or Barbara looks more shocked at this remark -- the mercenary freezes, then nearly topples forward when Trevor takes advantage of his stunned state to yank the rope away and hobble off. The latter, on the other hand, swiftly turns on one heel and avoids him the rest of the night.

Bane retreats to his sleeping quarters as soon as he's able. Selina and Harleen would both be making their way over soon. His mercenaries were a familiar element (even this hectic period between him and John), but these temporary allies and a gaggle of children...less so. Time away, however brief, would allow him to mull over every last detail until he felt more certain. Maybe someday he would air out this unsteadiness as he would an open wound, but until that day came he needed his space to recoup, recharge and plan.

Meditation helps him organize his thoughts. The act of brewing tea calms him down (though it brings thoughts of Talia, and with them regret so sharp it threatens to shake him all over again). He's in the middle of stretching the fire from his back when he hears familiar footsteps. Instinctively he flicks on the nearest lantern -- it just barely sheds some of the shadows, a tangible reluctance he shares.

John lingers in the doorway. Tension still furrows his brow, but his posture is still loose from their coupling. His hair has dried and he's neglected to brush it, leaving it to sweep messily over his brow and curl over his ears. It's a veritable mosaic, as chaotic as it is beautiful, and Bane all but marvels at him.

"...I'm still pissed." He mutters. "About what you did."

"I know." Bane tries to catch his gaze. It slips away easily.

"No. No, I don't think you do." He shakes his head. "If you _did_ you wouldn't have turned into the goddamn Tazmanian Devil." He sighs sharply when Bane frowns in confusion. "It's a cart-never mind. The point is, that's not good enough. 'I know'. I asked you not to blow a gasket and you did far worse than that. I thought you were a master at self-control, but I guess it was as two-faced as your mask."

Bane hates being admonished like this. It makes him bristle with a pathological need to gain control of the situation, fight _back_ , but he doesn't say a word or even move. He wonders how much of this humility he would be capable of if he hadn't been found by that kind family on one of Gotham's forgotten little islands. It still feels uneasy, like walking across the familiar ridges of an old habit he'd tossed long ago.

"I'm sick of people not listening to me. Sick of people never taking what I say seriously." John's voice burns with a long-nurtured resentment. "Having to add _you_ to the list?" He sighs again and slumps against the wall, staring hard at something in the corner. "...Fuck."

He's still a little scared from all that's happened. He's extremely angry. Worst of all...he's hurt. Bane navigates the crawl of shame that starts to envelop him from head-to-toe.

"So you 'know'. Do you 'know' you can't pull that shit around my kids?" He continues. "Flying off the handle like that. Not even once. So many of them come from broken homes, a lot of them with violent men at the center of it all. Shit, even if they _didn't_ I wouldn't want you being the first." His eyes flick back and forth in some ugly remembrance, then return to the corner. "Not even _once_."

"You...want me around your boys?"

John finally looks at him and very slowly arches an eyebrow.

"...Yeah?" He intones, carefully. "Of course I do. Do _you_ want to be?"

"...I don't know if I will be able to. Not that I fear I won't be able to check myself or contribute to their lives meaningfully." He adds when John's brow starts to furrow testily. "I would die for them...but I fear that may not be enough to convince them to feel comfortable around me."

His expression has relaxed, though it seems more relieved than calm.

"You'd be surprised." He says. "I think they've taken a shine to you. Well. More than they already did."

"That was before they knew who I truly was. Will they when they see the difficulties of my life?" These excuses feel so filthy. He gives voice to them anyway. "I don't...know how to be anything else."

"Sure you do. I see how you act around them. I've known people who've worked at children's homes for _years_ who don't have the same...warmth you do."

"Warmth." Bane repeats, blandly. "I snapped at them over dinner."

"Yeah, well. That was a while ago. You're learning." John almost smiles, but not quite. "Joel really likes you. So does Amir. They all do, to be honest. Jay told me how you signed to him earlier. He said you have a weird accent. So sign language is one of the seven languages you speak?"

"Yes. We use it in the League both to maintain silence during ground missions and to aid our hard-of-hearing members." Bane tilts his head, still coasting along more critical lines. "I'm afraid I had to fingerspell with him more than is acceptable."

"Still, that's...more than most." That look. The hesitant questions that remain grounded before they could take flight. Bane would have never considered himself a slow learner before he met John. He would have to continue to prove otherwise.

"I know English, Spanish, Russian, Kazakh, Arabic, Latin and three dialects of Western sign language."

"Wait, Latin? A dead language? Huh." A laugh, so quick as to be a breath, but it's a wonderful sound. "I didn't ask, though."

' _You can't lie to me._ ' Is his instinctive answer. "I have also kept a lot from you for no good reason at all." Bane says instead. "I will share anything with you, ask or no."

John nods, almost absently, but the mask has cracked and the truth has settled a cadence in his breath. If he were closer, nestled comfortably in Bane's arms as if he'd always belonged there, perhaps he could feel the difference in his pulse.

"That's not how this works, Bane. A relationship can't survive on a sudden confession every blue moon. It lives on the everyday things."

' _Does he know?_ ' Rosario's words murmur like an angel on his shoulder. ' _I think that's a very good place to start._ '

"Won't lie, it's...kind of hard to stay mad when you keep looking at me like that." He adds, rubbing the side of his arm. It's an awkward gesture, he realizes. A motion to fill up space when another action could prove too revealing.

"Like what, John?"

He finally, mercifully, holds his gaze. Like a dying coal the flare of anger has dimmed behind those glinting, dark eyes. Soothed down to something softer, if not quite tame.

"Like..." He looks to the floor, then to the side, then to the wall. "...Like you can't even believe I'm real."

He isn't wrong. Sometimes he really couldn't believe the hand life had dealt him, even so many months later when John's presence was as mundane as his own right hand. It's a mystery nobody, not even he, could solve -- that his existence resigned him to carrying the trauma of one of the world's oldest prisons _and_ the joy of this man's continued presence. This compassionate Gothamite and clever detective. He's not sure he would ever completely deserve him, but he's all right with this.

"I don't expect forgiveness." Bane says. "Not after a few days. If you were to come join me, though...I would not mind at all."

John looks to him in alarm. Then his throat bobs and he fidgets in an indecisive movement. He's not sure why. Bane waits, patiently, even as a rare note of anxiety churns through him and threatens to make him shake.

"Bane..." He asks, squinting as if to pull apart the dark. "Do you...ever feel lost at sea?"

"I would have said no, if you had asked me months ago." Bane tries to suss out the odd tone, with no luck, and he can only hope he'll share this with him, too. "Now...yes. Sometimes."

In one fluid movement he rolls his shirt above his head and stuffs it in the crook of his arm. He crosses the length of the room less quickly, though, and it feels like an eternity has passed by the time he's standing in front of him. Bane reaches out and pauses, meaningfully. When John doesn't tell him to stop he curls fingers beneath his jaw, cupping his chin and rubbing the rough, uneven stubble with his thumb. Apologies, promises, declarations. They rise to his mouth, threatening to spill with profound clumsiness, and Bane has to focus on the movement of his thumb beneath John's lips to keep from giving in to them.

Incredible. So _this_ was the source of such poetic platitudes. He's just amazed he's lived long enough to experience it.

John turns his head and presses his lips into the center of his palm. As piercing as a bullet through his flesh.

"So..." He says, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly. "...room enough for two?"

A tiny, affectionate sound escapes him when Bane moves his hand from his mouth to press to one side of his head, the other mirroring the motion and cradling his face close. John rests his hands along his wrists, squeezes briefly. He supposes this would be a good time to kiss, but he's in no position to remove his mask. They stay there for a minute, just holding each other, and nothing has ever felt so _still_.

"I...also owe you an apology." John begins, letting his hands fall to roam along his chest, repetitive, regretful. Warm. "He hurt you. Bruce. He...I...I should've been more understanding. He's an ass. Way too concerned with his image and storybook ideologies than rocking the boat. For all that he wanted to train me, he would've hated me just like Foley did." A muffled snort. "At least I wouldn't have to worry about him trying to murder me."

"Your attempt to find a third option amid shrinking ground is admirable. Frustrating, but admirable." Bane murmurs. "Remember, it hadn't been a betrayal. Not on his end. The toxin affected his judgement. I have little reason to believe this was something he would pull _before_ Talia was secured, anyway."

"Still." Bane closes his eyes when John presses his lips to his cheekbone, where the swelling has just started to go down. Then one hand brushes along his injured ribcage. "I'm sorry for hurting you and...and throwing all that shit in your face...and, um." He hesitates, as if he has yet to reach the worst part. "...and for calling you feral."

"...Did you mean it?" Yes, it hurt, a finger in a _very_ old wound, but he would rather John be _honest_. The man shakes his head hard.

"At the time, sure, but that really wasn't the best way to put it." He pokes his chest with a stern (and humorous) finger. "You're a prick, sometimes you have a _lousy_ temper, but you're not feral."

Bane nods, wordlessly, unable to parse out how much that simple statement means to him. John can sense it, though. A full range of emotions flutter across his face -- realization, understanding, empathy -- and he suddenly leans forward to hug him so tight he struggles to draw breath.

"I won't do that again. Okay?" He whispers against his neck. Bane grips his back with both hands and crushes his eyes shut. "Fly off the handle."

"Neither will I."

"So, uh...you called me 'love'." There's that note in his voice again, wry, but it quivers like a fragile creature. Too honest and bare to be so sarcastic. "That my term of my endearment now?"

"Well. Words are useful, but not by much." Bane admits. "I'm afraid I will never be able to sum you up, truly."

The dissonance between his words and intent would only grow larger by the minute, it seems, because his attempt at self-depreciating humor simply leaves John gaping at him when he pulls back. A slackening to his jaw as brief as it is telling. This same man who called himself a 'nobody former beat cop', who threw himself into danger and defined himself by the risk-taking he took solely on others' behalf...no. No, he wouldn't let him follow these train of thoughts again if he could help it. Of the all the speeches Bane has made, this one, somehow, was the easiest and most difficult of all.

"John. Listen to me..." He starts. The man laughs and shakes his head, though the fearful, vulnerable dip to his brow only grows deeper.

"Hey, no, you don't have to..." John begins, and Bane hesitates, and then he's flinching at _that_ hesitation. "No, I don't mean it like...oh, shit, I'm not very good at this. I'm not trying to get you to shut up, I just don't want you to feel like you're obligated to butter me up..."

"Running from the truth has done us no good." Bane threads his fingers through his hair, tilting his head to better stare into his eyes. "I find this frightening, too."

"Frightening?" John places his hand over his and squeezes. "Didn't think that was in your vocabulary."

"Yet I'm terrified. Somehow, I have stumbled upon one of the loves of my life by complete chance. I spend so much of my time planning, John, exploring every last possibility down to the most minute detail, and I could have never anticipated so many of these tender, unfettered moments." All the fondness and hope in his next words. Honey on his tongue. "Thank you."

John's eyes glint with sudden tears. Bane gets the feeling they're not painful ones.

"You don't have to thank me. Okay? I love you."

Bane smiles, slowly, then _grins_. He may not be privy to more traditional expressions of love, no, but it was still _wonderful_ to hear.

"Now _this_ I know."

"No, seriously, I...I love you so goddamn _much_ and it freaks me out." John insists, with that characteristic honesty and humor he adores so much. "It freaked me out right at the very beginning and I'm still just..."

To Hell with it.

"Wait, Bane, what are you-" John starts when Bane tears off the mask and kisses him hard. "Mm! ... _Mm_."

Bane pulls himself up over John, not even remembering to kick off his shoes in his haste to push his tongue into the man's mouth. His reaction is belated, blissful, then he's responding fiercely, every little eternity melting away under the light of the present. The masked man is careful not to nudge the bruises peppering his face, still, trading hungry bites for tender presses without warning. John tests him, as he always does, keening into his mouth every time their tongues brush.

His quiet retreat is soon filled with the rustle of blankets and hungry, desperate panting. The man tugs him down to better tangle their limbs together and claw at him with renewed energy. He's not sure if they're ready for more, Bane is aching and John is still exhausted, but that's fine. Just to hold him, _kiss_ him, is enough, but he would gladly pleasure _him_ if that's what he wants. He slides an unexpected hand between the detective's legs and feels him immediately twitch in response.

"Yes, yes, yes, _yes-_ " John pants, beautifully impulsive, only to hesitate with the barest shred of self-control, "Wait, your injuries-"

"To _Hell_ with my injuries." Bane growls against his collarbone, searching for a warm little pocket of skin to call his own. "You've laid me lower more than any damned knife ever could-"

"Ha, you're cursing, now I know you're losing it-" His voice goes faint when he bites. " _Ah_ , ah-"

Bane is taking another deep draft from the mask when the thought hits him. He's bared his soul, climbed past a mountain of personal obstacles in less than a day, yet he still hasn't shown him his face. It's enough to make him go rigid, causing John to murmur his concern and place a hand on his cheek.

"Let me...let me get the light." Bane assures, as best he can with John still pulling at his lip with his teeth.

"Hm...? Why? Are you all right...?"

"I haven't shown you yet."

"Shown me...?" He takes in a sudden, sharp breath, quick as ever. " _Oh._ "

They're just outside the pocket of light, where Bane's knapsacks and armor are painted out in tired yellows, and his instinct tells him to retreat further into the black and take John with him. Instead he takes another drink of the analgesic, deeper than usual, then leans over him.

"Okay." John whispers, almost too low to hear, and Bane places a lingering kiss against the corner of his mouth before reaching over to grab the lantern.

" _Wow._ You're _married?_ "

He just about drops it to shatter on the ground and it's only his reflexes that have it dangling instead from his fingertips. John sits up so fast Bane's surprised he doesn't give himself whiplash. They turn together to find Joel peering into the room, eyes as round as an owl's with a too-large coat fisted in his hands to trail behind him. Bane hastily reaches for his mask and straps it back on, thankful for the dark in more ways than one.

"Shit!" John mutters. "Oh...oh, sorry, uh, hold on..."

He's genuinely glad the child chose _now_ of all times to barge in, because he's honestly not sure he would've stopped once he got started...and he knows John would've raked him over the coals for _that_.

"Oh, hey, Joel. What are you doing out of bed?" John stammers as casually as he can, even as Bane can hear him desperately trying to compose himself. "It's late, kid."

"I wanna go home." Joel says, honestly enough, though he seems hesitant to walk into the room. Bane recalls how many children fear the dark. Talia never did, and neither had he, so he double-checks his pants to make sure he's decent before getting up to find the other lanterns. The room is soon filled from corner-to-corner with a soft orange glow.

"We will." John soothes, reaching out to him. "Just gotta get a few things out of the way first. Come here."

He walks in, dragging the jacket behind him. It's apparently his makeshift blanket, as he tries to wrap it around himself with clumsy, yet increasingly successful attempts. Bane wonders why he doesn't just put it on, but politely keeps this opinion to himself as the child approaches. Joel has figured his way around the primary tunnels with impressive swiftness. Perhaps even more startling is his silent approach. He vaguely recalls what he overheard from Barsad and Finn -- this very child had successfully hidden from trespassers back at the orphanage and contacted his older brother with nobody any the wiser.

"What are you doing in here?" He squeaks. "It's super warm..."

"This is where Bane sleeps." John replies, rubbing his neck and still trembling from the shock. "He's, uh, not crazy about the cold."

"Oh." He seems to mull this over. "...Are you gonna sleep with us? We miss you."

"Definitely." John assures. "We're just catching up, that's all."

Joel seems satisfied with this answer and takes a moment to poke around. The room is functional, not decorative, and it does little to hold his attention. Once his curiosity is satiated he immediately goes up to Bane.

"...Can I touch it?" He asks. It takes Bane a moment to realize what he's referring to. He blinks slowly, glances at the detective, then raises a hand to his mask.

"This?"

"Yeah."

"...Very well."

He starts to lean over, eager to put the child at ease, and stiffens as the stitches on his back pull. John puts a cautious hand on his shoulder, but he's not the only canny one. Joel takes this as a sign to crawl straight into his lap, his previous hesitation completely gone, and Bane is not _so_ startled that he doesn't remember to steady him with one hand so he doesn't slide back off.

" _Cool_." The tiny boy breathes as he slowly pats the front, wiggling a tiny finger in-between the metal cords to test their give. "You look really cool."

"Well, thank you." Bane replies. The boy giggles and holds both hands over the front.

"Again!"

"...Thank you?"

Ah. He's charmed by the rumble of his voice through the speaker. Joel urges him to say certain words ('muffins', 'Trevor', 'Blake') and never ceases to be _delighted_ as Bane repeats. John stifles snorts all the while and watches with a twinkle in his eye.

"You should say 'John is always right'." He says with a mock-serious nod.

"Good _luck_ , John." Bane snorts.

"So do you wear this 'cause of acne?" Joel asks once he gets bored of his impromptu game and pokes where the bare skin is exposed between the straps.

Bane raises his eyebrows. "No."

Joel peers accusingly at his older brother. "You _lied_."

Bane rolls his eyes at the man trembling next to him. The detective bites his lip...then bursts out into laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bane here is very much like me around kids. I was an only child for fourteen years before getting a little brother and I was a pretty aloof kid, to boot, so to this day I'm _complete_ shit when it comes to interacting with children. Especially very tiny ones with no filter whatsoever.
> 
>  
> 
> hope you don't mind sloppy chapters, these have sat around for far too long and I gotta keep **going**


	61. Here Is Gone

There's so much he's missed. Over the following week and a half it's all he can do to keep track of where his old life has gone to.

Tiya has a new family waiting for him. He can hardly believe it! A couple that lives just outside East End contacted St. Swithin's a month back, one a dentist and the other a factory worker. They lost their child to gang-related violence three years ago and finally decided to make the plunge to accept another child into their lives. They'd been drawn to the boy's home not _just_ for the kids who, for one reason or another, found themselves displaced, but for its unique reputation. St. Swithin's was the runt of the litter. The orphanage even other _orphans_ looked down their nose at.

They knew what it was like to take care of a kid who didn't feel like they fit in. Adopting a boy from St. Swithin's was a way they could honor their child's memory while still moving on.

"I thought it was kinda cool they told me that." Tiya admitted as they walked through the upper levels of the mountain -- these outcrops were drawn close with makeshift curtains when the weather got bad, but it was a good day, the expanse of Gotham's outer fields stretching out a healthy green all the way to the ocean in the far distance. "They weren't all fake-nice like a lot of adoptive parents tend to be. They were straight-up and didn't treat me like I'm...I don't know. A shiny new pet or somethin'."

"They sound pretty cool. I'd love to meet them when all this is over." Blake said it instinctively, eager to support one of his boys in getting a better deal, only to immediately regret it when he had to follow it up with, "I mean...if I _can_. If I'm not still on the Department's most wanted list."

"...I don't want to live all the way across the city. I don't want you to go to jail, either. It's not _fair_." Tiya looked so sad, so lost, and Blake _hated_ himself for putting that expression on his face. "Will you ever come back to Swithin's?"

"I don't know." He hadn't known if he could look over the place for Reilly and he didn't know if he can still be their big brother. "I'm doing everything I can to get things...not like they _used_ to, but...better." Blake had leaned down to hug Tiya tightly, so full of frustration and regret he felt like he was going to burst. "I'm _sorry_ I haven't been around as much as I should. I'm so sorry."

"Why are you sorry? You saved us." Tiya was capricious, in every shade of the word, and like a light he's grinning from ear-to-ear. "You were totally _badass_ back there, Blake. When you tackled that alligator thing over the railing? It was like something out of a movie. You just went _bam_ , then _psheww-_ "

Tiya, as he always did, decided to reenact it, complete with waving hand motions and sound-effects. Blake had forced himself to laugh with him. For his sake.

It was like wearing clothes that no longer fit. Deep down he knows nothing has changed, not monumentally, yet intrusive thoughts batter him to-and-fro about all the ways he's let down the orphanage. His kids. Father Reilly. On top of all the small and large shifts in Gotham there were even rumors lockdown could end prematurely. It was, frankly, a lot of good news off the heels of a horrid month. Good news didn't stop him from wondering and dwelling. His regrets start chew him up without mercy.

He wishes he could've spent more time with Gordon. There was always something whisking him away, mundane _or_ urgent, and he was fucking sick of it. Blake had been thrown for a loop in their last meeting, a loop without closure, no less -- he'd expected to be prodded with questions or even threatened to be taken in again like last time. No, the former Commissioner had taken Barbara's white lies and Blake's constant disappearances with a grain of salt and left it at that. Pushed him out the door with some spare cash, a new pack of cigarettes and a _mountain_ of faith.

" _I haven't inspired much trust in either of you. Expecting you to spill all the details after I kept my own under lock and key is a...pretty bad look. My own granddaughter didn't tell me she was the yellow-caped vigilante until **months** after the fact..._ " He'd looked hurt and fed up and disappointed, all at once, and for a moment Blake almost didn't recognize him. " _Bruce Wayne. I...I never even knew._ "

" _Wait...Barbara is **who?!** " Blake had cried, and Gordon's wry smile had only furthered his point._

Barbara had told him about Batman's true identity (as well as her own), a confession Blake had found utterly baffling at first. He'd expected her to spill the beans on _Bane_ , without a hint of regret, but that particular elephant in the room proceeded to settle quietly in the corner and become all but invisible.

" _Then lead a more honest life from here on out, no matter how hard it gets._ " Blake told him before they went their separate ways, again, even though their goals were closer than they'd ever been. " _Tell everyone the **real** hero in all this was a man who was unjustly imprisoned and experimented on by the city that was supposed to look after him. That the villain was the clean-suited socialite with a degree._ "

" _I will._ " Even though Gordon had lied to him, lied to everyone, his tone was nothing but sincere. " _I'm not sure how successful I'll be, what with the media circus pulling its hair out from all this insanity, but I'll do my damndest to shed light on what happened here._ "

Harleen and Selina arrive at the mountain not a day after him, the former lacking her usual maniacal energy and the latter practically _radiating smugness_ , an odd switch that had Blake on-edge immediately. Turns out the infamous cat burglar has gotten her hands on the clean slate, something even _he_ has a hard time believing until she literally shoves it in his face.

"It was a pain tracking down your ex-cop, but I finally got it." It's thin, small, black square. It could be confused for a fancy pack of gum.

"How did you find time for that?" Blake breathes, still incredulous even as his eyes have a hard time looking anywhere other than the high-tech _mystery box_ inches from his nose.

"You _did_ ask me to chaperone Barbara when she infiltrated the Department. I just..." She shrugs and nudges Harleen, who gives her an uncharacteristically mopey pout. "...made the most of it."

He'd sighed and kept the rest of his questions, for once, to himself. After all the craziness it was a time to recover.

Bane had seen both daughter _and_ long-time enemy slip right through his fingers, with a stab wound on top of it all, yet for all Blake could tell it was a minor inconvenience. The masked man remained a marvel of discipline, moving through each obligation and role as easily as shrugging on and off a jacket -- a leader to his men as they trained, a watchful protector to his boys the rare time they were in the same room together, and a pillar of peace to him.

The search for Bruce, Talia and Alfred was temporarily on hold. The Swithin's boys had put an unexpected wrench in the League's plans to transition out of Gotham. Whenever they can...they reach for each other. 

It doesn't happen as often as he'd like -- not with how busy they both are -- but whenever it does it's the spark that lights up two atoms. Future memories boil beneath the surface and blister every interaction as simple as a few exchanged words in-between runs or a held glance during a meeting. Being around Bane always felt like something greater. Something _beyond_ him, even, and it shook him up all the more that he feels the same. 

The masked man would watch him and the boys with his usual quiet fascination, completely silent with his fingers knitted together as he hunched in the corner of the room or leaned by the doorway. Without homework or personal projects to keep themselves busy the kids treated the mountain stronghold as their very own bizarre vacation spot. They learned their limits quickly (poverty had a way of encouraging retention) and remained on their best behavior, staying out of the way or immediately snapping to attention whenever a mercenary would address them directly. 

While the St. Swithin's boys got a bad rap for being troublemakers, Blake gets the uneasy feeling they're being excessively obedient because they're still rattled by everything that's happened. Which, of course, the illegal, hidden, _massive_ militaristic mountain bunker doesn't help. The more active boys had a ball bouncing in and out of the tunnels to let off some steam, leading to a messy, surprise collision with a group of returning mercenaries. A new rule had to be established by Barsad on-the-spot. Blake had immediately tried to intervene, only to stop at Anarosa's urging. 

"He can handle this." She said under her breath, weathered face stretched in a smile. "Trust."

"No running in the halls." Barsad said to the boys' downcast faces. "This is a bunker, not a playgound."

"'m sorry."

He tells them their limits, as unnaturally patient as ever, then writes it down for good measure. "We handle delicate equipment and I don't want to see any of you hurt."

"Aw. This is just like _school_." Tiya gripes under his shoulder, causing Jay to smack his shoulder (and the second-in-command to try and fail to stifle a laugh). It was a good sign, really, but like the appearance of a monsoon, there's usually very little time to prepare for the worst. 

As Bane once put it, " _Trauma runs a jagged line._ " 

Each night brings new terrors. Many of the boys, older _and_ younger, were having brutal nightmares about what they saw at the orphanage. It was more than one night a sudden scream would tear out of the rooms to echo down the tunnels, sparking multiple League members to spring to their feet and bolt toward the disturbance.

One time Blake had run in to see Jai shaking Emanuel by his shoulders and desperately trying to jog him out of a terrified stupor. Although he'd only been scraped here and there, he was one of the first to see the intruders. Blake later telling them the truth (when they'd calmed down, of course) didn't seem to put a dent in their bad dreams. They hadn't _seen_ what he had. For all they cared they'd simply been the subject of a living fever dream, one that still crept around every corner or threatened to burst out of the mountain's neverending shadowy corridors. 

Amir has it the worst. His pre-existing anxiety mixed with pain and a slew of new panic attacks meant he wasn't getting the rest he needed to recover -- his injury was healing wonderfully, better than Blake could've hoped, but mental health couldn't be stitched back together so easily. Just two nights after Emanuel had been nearly struck dumb with fear the young boy woke up in _hysterics_ , crying like he'd just had his arm bitten clean off. Blake had returned to see him all but surrounded by the others as they tried to keep him from hurting himself thrashing around.

"I'm sorry." He'd sniffled once he'd calmed down minutes later, covering his face in shame at the cluster of people in the door. "I thought they came back...I'm _sorry_. I didn't mean to wake you all up."

Barsad had brought in sleeping pills, looking quietly heartbroken.

Sometimes Blake felt like he was doing more harm than good.

He couldn't sleep knowing just _one_ of his boys were fighting fresh demons. So he frequently found himself wandering out of Bane's room at some disagreeable hour of the night to go lay between them in their clutter of sleeping bags and cots. It brought back memories of being sixteen and going through one of St. Swithin's many abruptly scheduled renovations, when all the orphans had to cluster together in the living room while the upper levels were repaired. There was always a broken floorboard to be replaced or a new hole in the wall that needed patching. 

Occasionally Blake would murmur these stories to them while their sleeping medication was taking time to kick in, one arm folded beneath his head and eyes drooping with exhaustion.

The jagged line wouldn't yet let up -- Joel went missing again. Blake and Barsad teamed up with over two _dozen_ others to search the entire mountain stronghold. It had been a terrifying few hours -- the upper levels were carefully watched, but a tiny lapse in attention could still see a curious younger boy toppling to their death when a mercenary's back was turned. The Swithin's orphans were a clever bunch, but they were still _kids_ , with all the gravity that came with the title. They were bold and curious and just as susceptible to the deadly result of bad timing as any other kid.

Every minute that went by drilled another tragic hole in his heart. Joel falling to his death at the tender age of seven. Joel finding his way into a room with weapons and setting something off. The thought of leaving Sasha without her son, when he'd _promised_ to protect him as long as necessary...the stress had made him snippier than normal, just another thing to regret later when he had the time. If he were at the orphanage he'd look under the tables, in the kitchen cupboards, perhaps the dried-out shrubbery in the backyard. But they weren't at St. Swithin's.

He hadn't been for far too long.

The mercenaries' patience with him grew visibly thin, with even Salim outright avoiding him as the hours wore on and on. The detective had been ready to tear his hair straight out of his scalp from worry...only to find out the boy had been under Bane's cot the _entire_ time. 

Blake had been in the middle of a rather terse argument with Barsad, both of them having become short with each other the more fruitless their search became, only to stop instantly when the masked man walked into the main hall with Joel in his arms, curly hair patted down with slow, tender motions. The sight had thrown Blake's heart into his throat for a split second, only to give way to a _searing_ frustration. The kid couldn't keep disappearing like that without telling them. He had to get Joel to understand the necessity of managing his panic attacks.

"Be gentle." Bane had warned when he handed the boy into Blake's shaking arms. "Flashbacks can seem real."

"But they're _not_ real. I'm fucking _real_!" He'd _cried_ , voice bouncing off the walls like a gunshot. The words had just come out and, for a split second, Blake would've gladly traded the severe looks thrown his way for another bullet in his hip.

The masked man later sits down with all twenty-seven of the boys to talk about the nightmares they've been having. They'd sat or stood in a semi-circle before him, as plainly as if they were having a candid presentation in class. Blake, still burning with embarrassment at his outburst, lingered in the doorway with Trevor gnawing on a bone by his feet. The dog was probably the only one who had taken to the mountain without any problems at all, getting out all of her energy running in and out of the halls with her tail in the air like a flag.

"To fear is to learn." He'd said, leaning on his elbows with his fingers knitted together. "What do you all fear?"

One-by-one they answered. Blake had felt a harsh sting of pride when they raised their hand instead of shouting their answers -- he'd been so worried they'd fear Bane, but at the most they seemed accepting. Wary of his stature, still a little stupefied by it all, but...accepting.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to protect them." Finn said, without missing a beat. He was one of the few who wasn't constantly racked with nightmares. Blake wondered if his success in taking down one of the alligator men had something to do with it. "I'll be moving out in a year or two, probably, but I still want to help. I'm the big brother. Always will be."

"I'm afraid of the dark." Emanuel answered, shame flushing his face a deep pink. "Never used to be."

"Me too." Jay said. "It's scary when I can't hear someone coming up behind me."

Joel, who had been rather quiet sitting in Finn's lap, had nodded his agreement. Blake hadn't missed the subtle change in Bane's eyes, a flicker of interest that was as potent as it was quick -- this was no doubt a subject he would explore in more depth very soon.

"I'm...well. I _was_ afraid I wouldn't be able to draw again. Now I'm afraid the drawings won't look as good." Amir said, sitting right up in front and idly touching his cast. "Dunno if that's better or worse."

Bane had practically _glowed_ with pride.

"From where I sit..." He'd rumbled. "...that is _sound_ progress, Amir."

The others had patted the kid's shoulders (with Finn choosing instead to ruffle his dark hair). Amir had looked embarrassed, but a little cheered, smiling and staring down at the drawings scrawled up and down his arm.

Bane was sitting on an overturned crate in a worn black t-shirt and battered fatigues, but it did little to dampen his stage presence. He waxes philosophical about the dark, making it sound almost _romantic_ , and the boys were all but enthralled, staring up at him with mouths slightly agape as he shares with him where he came from and what he knows.

"It's common to associate mystery and malice with the dark." He gesticulates with one hand, motioning to the little pockets of shadow nestled in the corners of the room like extra guests. "But what about the light? Balance is key, one that is upset by an overabundance of glorification and unchecked misnomers."

"Um. Light is hot?" Tiya had shrugged mightily, then grinned when Bane gave him a firm nod. "It also kills ants when you hold up a magnifying glass."

"Do you do that often?" Bane had asked, causing Tiya to immediately sober and shake his head vigorously.

"I hate when the light peers through the blinds and keeps me from sleeping in the morning." Jay said, as matter-of-fact as ever, though he'd accompanied the statement with an exaggerated squint that had the boys tittering with laughter. Only Bane had been silent. Still and staring at them with a seriously strange expression on his face. After the boys trade a few more remarks (Jamal mentioned flourescent lighting is 'depressing' and Joel piped up that once a kid shone a flashlight in his face and made it hard to see) Bane politely asked for their patience and leaves the room.

Blake followed him into the tunnel to assure him the boys weren't being _rude_ , just relieving stress the best way they knew how, and stopped mid-sentence when he realized he was _crying_. Not a sob, not nearly as loud as to be, but there was no other way to interpret those shallow, shaking breaths.

"Where..." Bane whispered, head bowed just out of the light of the wall lantern. "Where did I go _wrong?_ "

Where did he go wrong with Talia. _Why_ did she turn out like she did. What could he have done differently. Even though he'd asked himself similar questions before, Blake hadn't known what to say. Not when he'd been feeling _exactly_ like the failure he'd always dreaded becoming. He uselessly stood by as Bane mopped at his face with one hand and tried to get his breathing under control, even though the quiver to his shoulders crumpled his heart to pieces.

Bane returned fifteen minutes later and proceeded to talk with the boys until they were barely holding back yawns. They didn't have any nightmares that night.

 

\--

 

They were fucked up after the past few weeks. Licking each other's wounds, celebrating their victories and failures with heavy minds and hopeful hearts.

They'd curl in bed for shared naps whenever their uneven schedules lined up -- Blake with his boys or helping the mercenaries with mundane tasks, Bane with training and planning. It's funny that their unpredictable living matched up, yet didn't. Bane would press gently into the bruises and scrapes he left the prior night or the night before that, occasionally pushing the cold front of his mask to them one-by-one like a makeshift compress, just to hear Blake hiss in response. Too tired for sex his hands would still wander as they drifted for an hour or two, petting his ass or moving over his stomach in weary, appreciative sweeps.

Obligations would tug them out of bed and they'd stir into wakefulness, half-hard and a little crazy. Blake would pinch Bane's ass, just to hear him snort in surprise, or linger close as the man slung on his coat and tied on his boots. These moments grounded them both. Sanity checks in the form of quick kisses and brushing shoulders. At least, sometimes. Other times it was much more painful.

Sometimes they would have the kind of sleep where they couldn't let each other go afterwards. One of them would get up, him to get a glass of water or Bane to stretch out his back and, inevitably, they'd drift back to one another like static to a cotton shirt. Blake found himself yanked back and forth between his boys and Bane. Brotherly obligation and the selfish, humiliating craving to shut out the entire world and forget about his own life.

The boys weren't the only ones having nightmares. Waking ones occasionally had them jerking awake and gripping one another like an anchor. Others that were little more than awful shudders that were too lingering to be from the cold. At one point Bane actually woke _him_ (a first that had startled Blake completely from his exhaustion) and demanded he speak.

" _John_. John, speak to me. I need to know you're here."

"What? Okay, what, okay-" He'd mumbled, pressing his hands on Bane's cheeks, letting the cold metal straps fully shake him awake. "Okay. I'm here. All right? I'm here."

"You're here." Bane was right in front of him, yet somehow he'd sounded like he was a million miles away. "You're still _here_."

The sudden sheen to his skin, his hoarse breath just inches from his face like he'd just been shot...it might have freaked him out before. Now? Losing his _own_ mind, bit by tenuous bit, had him just feeling fucking sorry.

Despite risking his life to keep others from going through the Hell he was handed as a child, Bane saw logic in the pain. He showed this peculiar care whenever they sparred, shaving away at Blake's weaknesses with savage blows only to drop the entire session when his bad leg started to seize. He'd discipline with the ferocity of a wild animal, then reason as gently as a teacher. He'd bruise and soothe. Critique and inspire. Bane would correct him swiftly for admitting it, but Blake still couldn't believe he, of _all_ people, had captured his heart.

They were communicating as much through touch as they were with words. Their sometimes-stumbling, sometimes-running efforts through the thick of their relationship was a headfirst tumble down a mountain face, the only means of being steadied each other's bruising grip and barely finished whispers. Bane would return from training and steal a few minutes in an isolated tunnel or one of the many rooms they found themselves in, pulling off his mask and kissing him like it was his last day on the planet. Their very first time he'd been rough -- a little _too_ rough -- and every hungry moment after was a balancing act.

Bane, just like him, loved to bite. He'd nibble his ear, burrow his scarred nose into his neck and make him squirm, almost sweet, then he'd switch without warning and dig his teeth into his shoulder. Each time a lesson in communication. A lesson in restraint. A restraint that, admittedly, got kicked in the balls every time Blake breathed affectionate words into his mouth. Sometimes they were soft, so soft he couldn't even hear himself, but the way Bane would grip him would be proof enough. Despite what he said all those days back, Bane didn't show him his face. As badly as Blake wanted to see, wanted to shave away the few layers still remaining between them, he didn't pry. He'd share when he was ready.

For a few minutes everything would be simple and peaceful. A craving as addicting as his cigarettes and the analgesic in Bane's mask. Where they wore each other in bruises and scratches that never felt like enough. Private conversations were mutters with no beginning and no end, barely words at all, really, probably embarrassing anywhere outside of the tiny pockets of space between their bodies but more honest than they'd ever been.

So honest just the prior night Blake broke down in the middle of it.

He'd been looking forward to a good fuck the entire _week_. Their spontaneous sex in the tunnels had been, in typical hindsight, a bad idea -- Blake's bitten ankle and Bane's knife wound had reminded them both to be a _little_ more responsible. He'd insisted on letting the man recover from his injuries before they tried anything more intensive (as well as their fight, something he would still feel guilt over every time his mind wandered, which was so damn _often_ lately-). Bane had initially agreed, pragmatic to a fault, but it didn't take long before they were throwing this new rule to the wind.

Blake had spent _hours_ thinking of the best line to pique his interest, only to mentally throw up his hands and just ask him straight-up. The masked man had agreed and took care to set aside some _very_ rare free time just for the two of them. Every time they crossed paths that day Blake never failed to give him a quick smile or a suggestive glance. Teasing him as much as possible with whatever he could get away with. Bane was more than a match for his rusty flirting -- he could tell entire stories with his eyes _alone_ , after all, and once reduced Blake to a flustered mess when he'd winked at him over the heads of his mercenaries.

For a few blissful moments in Bane's small room he'd forgotten everything.

"Fuck, I'm close..." He'd panted against his mask. "Come _on..._ "

"What are you rushing for?" Bane had panted back, voice husky, and that breathy punch through the mask was enough to make him feel delightfully crazy.

"There's no rush, I'm just fucking _close-_ "

" _Hm_."

Bane's affectionate cruelty had reached its peak. Just as eager to hurt a little as he was to please. He all but thrilled in being cursed out as Blake tried and failed to get him to go faster, letting out a self-satisfied _hum_ into the curve of his neck as he instead slowed down from thrusting to an infuriatingly slow back-and-forth that shifted Blake's entire body up and down. Teasing out reactions with his usual tricks didn't work this time, not when Bane had him right where he wanted him. He never really rushed, no, but he was always characteristically... _efficient_ at what he did. That he wanted to take his time was as touching as it was agonizing.

Maybe it was the feel of his thick torso pushed heavy on him, muffling his chaotic world down to warm skin and solid muscle. Maybe it was the rolling flex of his hips between his thighs, holding off his pleasure while practically _drowning_ him in it. Deep down he knew it was a hot mix of _everything_ , choosing the worst damn time to bubble up and boil over. Before he could even think of a way to compose himself his face was wet with tears.

"John...?" Bane had pulled back instantly, horrified and concerned and confused.

"Oh, Bane, I would have _killed_ you." He had his arms over his face, as if he could push the onslaught back into his rattled mind. "I would have killed you or got you thrown in jail and never _known_."

Bane, damn him, pulled away and pulled him against his chest, as if the thought of being irritated that he'd fucked _this_ up, too, didn't even occur to him. "Regrets are wind." He'd whispered into his hair. "Never regret for me. Promise."

"I can't fucking promise that." Blake had all but wailed in response. "I haven't done that at all...!"

"Yes, you have and you  _can_." Only then did Bane sound angry, a harsh scrape that dashed away any lingering softness in his voice. "Don't _lie_ to me, John, most of all yourself."

Blake rubs his hair and lets his words echo in and out of his mind in the quiet.

At least he could say one good thing about himself. Barely a week and a half in the mountain stronghold and he'd gotten hold of the routine. Enough that he could slip away from the mess hall and find himself a place to break down quietly. Bane, like usual, had a hundred obligations on his plate. Barsad was never far behind. Harleen and Selina and Barbara had no obligation to keep helping, with their shaky trust and personal issues, but they were _still_ here and it was more than he could bear.

He knows which areas of the mountain labyrinth are frequented and which ones are empty more often than not. The closer to food storage, washrooms or sick bays the further he tries to be. The closer he tries to get to the details of the whirlwind past few days, well, the more they swirl away from him, an indistinct mess that leaves him feeling disheveled. Being away from so many voices and activity helps, a little.

Of course, Bane still finds him easily.

"Why are you here?" The masked man asks when he approaches. He's still silent as a ghost and it's only exhaustion and the lingering dredges of emotional numbness that keeps Blake from jumping straight out of his skin.

"Just...needed a little peace and quiet." He answers with a huff. "You know, you could stand to make _some_ noise when you approach."

"Noted. Should I leave, then?"

"You're fine."

"Then why are you hiding yourself away again?"

It's hard to make out Bane's face in the shadow, but the air around him _feels_ as disbelieving as a disapproving grandmother. It'd be funny if he weren't feeling so completely fucked. With a soft grunt the man kneels to a crouch in front of him and waits for him to speak. Bane had the patience to make the _mountain_ blush, so Blake knows the silent treatment won't be enough to drive him off.

"...I just got done writing a letter to Waylon's family. Not to mail it to them, but to read it when I get there because my head is..." He waves a hand. Bane grunts his acknowledgement. "He left behind a wife and a daughter who didn't even know he was alive this entire time. ...I saw them in my dream, you know. When Crane used his toxin on me again."

"I see."

They didn't talk about the toxin much. Not when it was too surreal to grasp, even for their curious minds. Maybe they would, once they had a little less on their plate, but until then the bizarre coincidences had to take a back seat to everything else.

"I tried to talk him out of it. We could've found another way to slow the toxin down, but I think after all he went through he...just couldn't push on. That or he didn't want to risk giving Crane's work more time to infect people. I don't know. He's dead and I'll never know."

A low _hum_ , neither affirming or judgmental. Just a confirmation. His chest heats up, like a candlelight desperately trying to grow taller, but his fear is dampening it before it has the chance.

"You can't save everyone from themselves." Bane responds, simply, even though a phrase like that is anything but simple. "You're noble, John, but it's a thankless ambition and one you should give up if you want to keep your sanity in-tact."

"Ha. Sanity. I don't know the last time I've felt fucking _sane._ Bane, I feel like I'm barely holding together. I'm tired and...and I'm thirsty all the _goddamn_ time and...I know what I have to _do_ , but I can't...I can't do it." Blake heaves out each messy sentence with an almost physical effort. "I have to, I _want_ to...but I feel like I can't."

"Someone once told me hiding one's humanity isn't beneficial to either party." Bane murmurs. Blake curses the man's spotless memory. "Do you believe your boys do better knowing you're pulling yourself apart for their sake?"

"They don't." He responds, a little sullenly, picking at nothing on his shirt. "That's the point."

"Is that why Amir trails after you with water bottles?" Bane presses, blandly put yet utterly shrewd. "Why Finn has tried to relieve you of your duties more than necessary? Why Tiya is always trying to make you laugh?" He can actually _feel_ the man tilt his head. Bane could toy with atmosphere as easily as a ball of yarn. "Joel asked me if I had the necessary ingredients to bake you a cake to cheer you up. It was a tragedy having to refuse him."

Blake scoffs. He's proud (and _really_ annoyed, at the moment), how flawlessly Bane has picked up on the boys' inner mechanisms. The only downside to the man acting the part of a hulking, weird uncle was that Blake couldn't exactly bottle himself away for easy consumption. He'd been trying to shave off as much pain off the past week as possible with Reilly out of commission. Shrugging off some of the burden on Bane felt like nothing other than yet another failure. His gut knew it wasn't, but his brain has been busy screaming at him non-stop and it was a little hard to filter positive feedback from useless noise.

"Well, learning to accept 'no' is part of being in a family." He drawls, deciding to at least commit to his stubbornness.

Bane is unimpressed. "'No' is an answer I learned very young. I think this goes for all of us."

"Well, maybe you'll have to take on one more."

His poor mood has festered because of the leftover throes of Crane's toxin, his recovering injuries and his lack of sleep over the past days. Bane places a warm hand on his knee.

"...Lean on me, John." He murmurs, rubbing a thumb over his knee in a slow circle. "I can carry you."

His words root up a warm memory. Blake closes his eyes and lets it come. The twinkle of light through the treetops. A rhythmic swaying matched smartly with the _crunch-crunch_ of the forest underfoot as Bane carries him. They'd reunited. They'd argued. They'd pulled away, then came back, then pulled away, then _ran_ back. Blake, finally, wills his bad temper to roll over and die.

"...All right." His voice comes out small and tired and probably still sounding like a moody teenager. He scrubs at his hair and leans off the wall and onto his feet. "Okay. You talked me into it."

"Yes, well. I'm known to be quite persuasive." Bane chuckles lightly, then deeper when Blake rolls his eyes and tries not to smile. They run into Tiya and Jay on the way to Bane's room. They stop and trade looks at the sight of Bane leading him down the hall, one arm curled around his waist.

"I'm ok-" He starts to say, before he catches himself. "...I'm not okay, actually. But I'm just going to go relax for a while. Then I'll come down."

They accept this without complaint. Bane gives his hand a squeeze.

When they get back to his room Bane promptly lays him down on his stomach and rubs his back. Most of Blake's things are in there, save for the pillow he keeps carrying back and forth between the boys' sleeping quarters. He has no idea how tense he is until he's melting into a boneless heap beneath each firm, rolling, determined press.

"You gotta...let me return...the favor..." Blake mumbles sloppily. "'S only- _fuck_ , that's good-fair..."

"Hush."

Bane's voice is soft, but the fingers he digs into a tight knot in the crook of his neck are anything but. Maybe one day Blake would look up how the art of a massage could make the entire world feel like background noise. But not now. Now he just enjoys loosening up after what feels like years and eventually falling into a rare dreamless sleep. The masked man is hunched against the wall and knitting quietly when he wakes a few hours later. At least, that's what his brain tells him _should_ be the case. Bane is shirtless, just in his back brace and a pair of old fatigues, meaning the day...has gone right by without him.

"Aw, damn it. I overslept again...?" He groans, uselessly, and sweeps hands over his face. Bane's eyes flick up to him, then back down to the deep blue yarn piled in his lap. It looks like a scarf.

"You slept enough."

One side of his hair skewed upright from sleep, he walks across the room to give Bane a kiss on the cheek. The masked man doesn't mind when he attempts (and completely fails) to mimic the complicated patterns while sitting in his lap, nor does he mind when he soon dozes off again in the middle of a 'purl two' (he's still not entirely sure what that is). For what feels like the first time in eons his heart rate pounds slowly, his thoughts following suit, drugged into lethargy by Bane's soft affection. 

"...Sorry to...make you take care of me like this." Blake murmurs once he's awake again. He's loose and warm and relaxed, a soft _thump-thump_ by his ear, and he thinks his cheek might be on Bane's chest. The yarn is formed halfway over his legs now. The man works fast.

"I refer you to my first 'hush'." He hears (and feels) his answer's rumble against his cheek. Bane's hand moves up to run fingers through his hair, the tips of his fingers tickling the bullet graze he got at the library. By the sound of his voice it seems like he dozed off, too. Then again, Bane always _did_ sound a little sleepy. Their talk in the tunnels drifts in the back of his mind, held back enough by his impromptu nap not to make him anxious, but just close enough to make his mouth start working on its own.

"You know, I don't really think much of myself." Blake mumbles into his chest. "I don't think I have for over twenty years."

"I haven't always, either." Bane admits, and he appreciates the man's frank response to his confession. His skin is always warm, but it feels like a furnace from where they've been pressed together. Like usual he doesn't seem to mind one bit. "One step at a time is all you can do."

"Like letting you rub my back?" Blake snorts. Bane plucks at the hair by his ear.

"Like muttering my name in your sleep."

"Fuck you, I don't do that."

"Hm?"

"I _said_..." Blake's limbs are still numb from sleep, so the smack to his shoulder really has no weight behind it. "...fuck you, I don't _do_ that."

He grins when he feels Bane's chest rumble again, this time with laughter.

Once he's feeling more awake Blake spends time with his boys under the watchful eye of Khalil and Anarosa. Harleen and Selina later join them for dinner, bringing enough stories to soon get everybody laughing over bowls of stew. When he was sure putting one foot in front of the other was an impossible feat, a held glance from Bane or a brush of his fingers against his hip would ground him again. It didn't make things easy, no. His life would never be _easy_. But it made it a little less hard.

That wisdom would be challenged just three days later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Please" by Rhye is a **huge** moodsetter for a lot of the emotional moments. But the title of the chapter is based on another song entirely. 
> 
> Also, _hello_.


	62. Some Kept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for discussions of grief and loss.

Bane's repertoire of masks were almost as incomprehensible as his past. An honest peek behind one would erect another wall of questions that demanded a person's devotion, lest they leave with wasted time and little else. Anything less was grounds for immediate dismissal. That the masked man tells him so plainly speaks of the severity of the wounds he's struggling with.

"Bruce and Talia are predictable. At least, they would be without the third element."

"Crane's toxin." Barsad murmurs. Bane nods.

"Wandering back into Gotham is risky. Lockdown protocol dictates the transition from gatekeeping to previously enjoyed freedom be gradual. Even the faintest hint of suspicion could reverse the process and leave the populace with months more to contend with." A frustrated _huff_. "If I knew where they were it would be quick...astronomically so."

Barsad keeps himself still as Bane rubs his forehead with one hand and sighs. He'd never fully relaxed around him, not quite, completely unwilling to show his weariness. Now it was more obvious than ever. It was as difficult to grasp as a familiar scent with no name. He couldn't put an exact finger on it, but Bane has...changed. He only wished he could say for sure whether it's bad or good.

"I've constructed so much of myself on the gift she gave me." Bane tells him as he paces the room. "I've never existed in this world without her."

At one point in his life Barsad's greatest feat had been getting his daughter's grades up. He had always done well with handling life's little surprises -- it's why he'd been a nearly perfect match crunching numbers and shuffling through paperwork at a wealthy insurance firm, later translating that success into becoming a successful father helping his wife and child to live comfortably. Now he was helping inspire social change throughout one of the world's most influential cities. A dramatic change, but not all that unusual for one as reliable as he.

He never expected to join the League Of Shadows. Barsad had certainly never expected to become Bane's right-hand man, trusted confidant _and_ brother-in-arms. Yet he'd accomplished these minor and major achievements with grace. Not knowing what to expect, for once, fills him with unease. Barsad takes a deep breath through his nose and still tries to prepare himself for what to come.

"I may not be...well enough to lead after I find Talia again." Bane's back is turned to him, arms folded behind his back and head bowed. "I need to know what you think of the possibility of command."

Despite his best efforts to reign it back, Barsad feels his face contort in shock. Lead the new League Of Shadows? Even more...he's _asking_ him. Not commanding, but _asking_ , and it speaks of such respect, both in his skill and to his person, that he's temporarily speechless.

"I've...never considered it before." Barsad responds.

"Even with the possibility of my death?" Bane asks, lifting his head.

"Yes. Even that." He tells him, ever honest. His mind is puzzling the pieces togetehr with what he knows, but the picture it forms isn't promising. "But why?"

Bane goes silent. Barsad stares at the painful line starting to stiffen the man's shoulders from where he stands near the shadows.

"You fight alongside us. You put your life on the line for people you don't even know." Barsad offers, voice low with understanding. "We've never thought lesser of you for struggling, Bane."

"I could've become Rubio." He continues when Bane doesn't speak. "I was used to being treated as just valuable enough and just disposable enough. The work was hard and I was thinking of quitting. I thought to myself, 'Barsad, you're just not cut out for this. You worked behind a desk for over five years and now you're being asked to climb mountains and hack sensitive government information. You're out of your league.'"

Bane glances over his shoulder, one brow quirked. The pun is not lost on him.

"When we landed in West Africa two years back I was ready to quit. Sierra Leone was a hot nightmare compared to my homeland. I was missing my family more than ever. I had killed my first person not weeks before and was still having nightmares about it. I didn't know what to do. On top of it all, your acceptance of the infamous Daggett's request to gradually secure a diamond mining operation had me questioning your true motives." Barsad's smile betrays a hint of humor. "The League is a lifelong commitment. I couldn't simply hand in my two weeks' notice."

"Working with balances and inventory under new management, however more _radical_ , had me underestimating the League's influence and the burden you were carrying on your shoulders. I'd considered you competent, fearsome, even, but your dream was still beyond me. My paltry concerns would have seen us confronting one another, a fight I no doubt would have _lost_...then I saw you risk your life. Not for one of your own men, or even your then-lieutenant, but a factory worker. An elderly man missing a hand, someone who would be seen as disposable by most people. I'd never seen anything of the sort in my life."

Bane's scoff is soft. A disgusted noise, not a discouraging one, and the sound only reaffirms why Barsad had given up his comfortable life in exchange for the new League Of Shadows.

"Underpaid, underfed, overworked." Bane muses, running a thumb over one of the wires on his mask. "He later told me he'd spent half of his life in that mine..."

"Then he went on to reinvent half the town with a few 'undiscovered' goods." Barsad finishes with a smile. "Daggett had been thrown for quite a loop when he found out."

Bane almost smiles back, something flickers on his brother's face, but it's soon whittled away into another shadow. Barsad pushes forward, newly incensed, sensing the loss well before it's come.

"Something ignited in me that day, Bane. Suddenly everything came into _focus_. I'd originally joined that insurance firm because it was something I was good at. Only after seeing family after family coming to me with their stories did I want to do more. I would spend so much of my time trying to keep people's lives from going bad to worse, with sorry results, while you went straight to the root of the problem. You don't just save people. You inspired them to keep _living_."

"To keep living." Bane repeats, eyes flicking away and looking at nothing in particular. "A high honor."

"Rather, Bane. I'm honored you ask this of _me_...but I've been successful as your second." Barsad shakes his head. "I don't think I inspire the same fever you do."

"The League thrives on diversity of perspective. You shouldn't want to be me, but rather, the best possible version of you." He turns and holds him fast with a knowing gaze. "Trust me."

"...Will this be permanent?" The thought alone terrifies him. He doesn't, however, let a single note of fear enter his voice. He'd been vulnerable enough. "Or temporary?"

"...I don't know."

Barsad considers the sheer weight of the statement, as best he knows how. They have a few more weeks in the mountain before their supplies from Gotham become strained. It should be enough time for their ledge gardens to start bearing their crops, but it wouldn't be enough to sustain over three hundred people in the long-term. The Swithin's children would also be returning home soon. They would have to make the most out of this lull.

"Did you prompt them to do that?" Bane asks just as he's about to leave. Barsad doesn't need to ask him to clarify. He's referring to nearly every last League member bowing their heads to him days back, not unlike how Ra's used to be greeted by his students every time he entered a room.

"No." Barsad responds, with a hint of sadness. "It was everyone's idea."

 

 

\--

Every time Bane pulled off his mask he could feel instinct moving him like a puppet on a string. To eat, to perform maintenance, it didn't matter.

Instinct urged it back onto his face with phantom hands, teasing away his will and dragging back into sight that made Bane who he is. Calculation, mystery, brutality. Not vulnerability. Nothing as cautious, as _bare_ , as each and every last moment between him and John. The detective deserved to see it. He deserved to see _all_ of him, even though Bane had long since accepted it would never be enough. The longer he stares into the mirror the more he rolls useless supposition back and forth in his head.

He closes his eyes. Instead of a clear head, however, he instead envisions how John's face might fall with sympathy upon viewing his scars in the light, held back _just_ enough to keep Bane's disdain in check. Perhaps he'd make a joke, almost as gentle as the way he'd touch his ruined mouth and reacquaint himself through sight. He would definitely hold back his questions, even though he was as open as a book to Bane now. Bane reaches up and lets his fingers slide down his ruined nose, dipping and shifting like water through the fleshy crevasses in a mimic of John's touch.

The mirror is dirty, cracked in one corner, but it's not that which makes his own face feel alien. Dark, dusky gray eyes glint with life under wide brows and over a gnarled face, all the more chaotic for the tanned skin clashing with underfed tones along his cheeks and forehead. For one cold moment...he's bold. Bane holds the mask from his fingertips, squaring his shoulders back to challenge the weathered man staring back at him.

Ra's al Ghul's doctors had superior equipment and plenty of time on their hands. Nothing like Yaakov's broken tools trying to ease pain in the dim, tense atmosphere of the pit. They were still no miracle workers. Bane had never cared much for his own reflection, prone to lingering in the dark away from people and all their curiosity, never preening or fussing as so many tended to do. He'd only ever trimmed when his beard annoyed him or bangs itched in his eyes. When the bandages were unraveled from his face, the second attempt at repairing the hellish gift the prisoners left him with...he had been given sudden reason to reconsider.

He'd ignored Yaakov's comments once he got back to his feet again. The man's puerile apologies to stave off his anger upon his recovery had, in fact, only made him _angrier_. Flesh was one thing, but Talia's scars would never heal. Not after his mistake. It was the first time in Behnam's life he had ever considered the concept of revenge. The moment his strength had returned to him -- finicky and random, with his spine forever twisted out of order -- he'd clawed his eyes out while the pit was asleep.

Above the pit Yaakov would be echoed in unexpected places. The League's lead surgeon had apologized to him once he was able to stay awake for more than a few hours. The nurses had averted their eyes whenever they walked by his bedside. Not even a year later he would find one of his long-lost family members and be denounced as a demon. Little-by-little he learned about the power of a person's face. The _raw_ reactions that bubbled up in these 'civilized' spaces at the sight of garish scars and limited mobility.

Ra's had, for what would be the first of many times over the years, looked disgusted and disappointed weeks after rescuing him. For all that the man taught him the art of deception, countless forms of martial arts, classical forms of fencing, archery and swordplay and the history of the world...the first thing he ever taught Bane was shame.

" _Animals, leaving little more than an animal's work._ " The man's gaze had bored into him like a drill, unrelenting. " _I hope their influence doesn't linger._ "

" _We all bear animal instinct in our blood._ " Bane replied, to the surreptitious mutters of the League's honored, experienced and new alike.

" _Some more than others..._ " Ra's' echo had yet to leave his mind. "... _when they choose not to settle for less._ "

Bruce Wayne had looked quietly alarmed when they first met, studiously looking anywhere but directly at him in some pantomime of politeness. Bane had never expected the man to remember him. How could he? He was the son of millionaires, he himself a billionaire with a permanent net to catch him even after his tragic fall. People had come and gone in his life like the passing of leaves. Bane had _despised_ the way the man's eyes had lingered on his face when he thought he didn't notice before inevitably being turned elsewhere. Finding out he was Ra's' favorite pupil had only soured the blow.

Talia, though...Talia would still be the only one in his life that hadn't even _flinched_.

" _Let them be reminded._ " She'd responded when he'd murmured to her his concerns, unfamiliar with the shame, bristling with wrongdoing in this new environment he didn't _understand_ and felt like he never would. " _You have nothing to hide._ "

" _How will I navigate a world with a face like this? How will you? I can hardly hide for my size, much less these scars that earn so much focused scorn._ "

" _Then bend it!_ " She'd snapped, startling him into silence with the sharpness in her tone -- he'd never heard her speak so loud before. She was truly free of the pit. " _Break it. The world is ours, remember? That's what mother told you, what she meant to tell **me**. It's ours now and I'm not giving it up for anyone._ "

He had agreed...for a time. The shame was gradually shedded in quiet rooms and distant corners, slippery at best when he cared little for social interaction to begin with and had only a few to please. But soon something _else_ came to him during his long days of training in the League -- he could trade his scars for a new identity entirely. One not quite free from the pit, but constructed upon it. _Improved_. The idea had _consumed_ him instantly. A fire that licked up his body and birthed forth a phoenix.

Behnam poured his mind, heart and _soul_ into the mask. He constructed multiple iterations by hand to inch ever closer to the one that would remain engraved on history's cloth for an eternity. Once his mask had covered his entire face, a placeholder that sometimes left him unrecognized (there weren't many as tall or burly as he). Another had merely covered half. Some were made out of tanned leather, others a slapdash of cloth, yet others entirely out of stainless steel, _all_ of them eventually contributing to the final design that chilled the blood of all who bore witness. Animalistic. Sleek. Fearsome.

He made the mask and, in turn, it made _him_.

Swift as a breeze the boldness is gone. He straps the mask back on with practiced motions, breathes in the analgesic's chill and _curses_ himself. It's not cowardice. Not _quite_. But it's so damningly close he loathes it almost as much as Bruce. Bane was able to dangle thousands of feet above the earth without a hitch in his heart rate. He was unstoppable in the face of illness, fire, bullets, explosions, _carnage_. He was a survivor of one of the worst Hells on Earth.

...and he never escaped the pit. He was nothing without the mask. A permanent shadow of Ra's and Bruce and _Talia._

Bane grabs the mirror and _flings_ it to the ground, grabbing his coat and storming out.

The longer he puts it off the more the excuse mutates, one that feels more apt the more distance he puts between himself and personal disappointment. Now wouldn't be the best time to show his face. Not when John has been acting strange these past few days.

The man had tried to hide away at first. Sitting in the far tunnels, avoiding conversation, the like. Like coaxing an animal out of its hole Bane had urged him back out. They'd reached a more level ground after their argument and reunion, however tender, and he was _sure_ the detective was starting to yield to his encouragement to keep opening up alongside him. The exhaustion never quite left his eyes, no, but he smiled more. He slept relatively well beside him at night (save for repeated midnight runs for a drink, prompting Bane to keep a filled water bottle by the cot at all times).

A mere three days after their talk the sumputous darkness in his eyes would glint with a sharper light. Bane doesn't know what it is, but it's severe.

He talks even less. Eats alone. Bane pulls him aside and asks him to share what's bothering him one evening, only to get a flippant answer and a smile so insincere it makes his skin _crawl_. He offers to spend one-on-one time with him more than once, but John always seems to find something else to do at that exact moment. Once the detective had snapped at him, an act that shocked them both.

"You picked a pretty bad time to want to spill your guts." John snapped, hands shaking, a contradictory angry and not-angry. "Take a hint, huh?"

"Very well." Bane had snapped back, and they'd felt inches away from another fight. "Brood if you want!"

John doesn't sleep in the room with him afterwards, remaining with his boys and pointedly avoiding him come morning. The very mountain seems to quail with their frayed nerves.

It's frustrating pulling back -- anyone else he would demand answers from, but the expanse of a relationship was one he had to navigate cautiously. Bane second-guesses himself much more than usual in these intimate confines and, as much as he loathes it, he admits to the necessity. He wasn't his commander. He was his partner. He'd have to finesse this role with elegance, nothing less. Between sparring with the newer recruits to discussing new strongholds with Barsad (and giving John a hearty amount of space) he quietly considers what could be searing the detective apart.

It wasn't the deaths of Waylon Jones and his fellow patients. It wasn't the after-effects of the toxin. Not entirely, at least. Bane has long since become fluent with John's unique expressions of anger. The justified rage, as unyielding as a desert sun to expose everything in its path. The slow burn of personal hurt, kept under a tight lid to simmer quietly, more virulent than most gave it credit for. No, there was something _else_ causing him to withdraw. An agony in his gaze that felt like a physical effort just to witness. Like shredded flesh Bane picks and peels at the trauma on display, trying to fully understand the task so he can help him heal.

"Somewhere smaller, I think..." Barsad is saying. He taps a finger on the map. "A town would help us stay low and give us a simpler foundation all at once."

"It would take time to build up trust with the residents. A minor slip could blow back on the entire community and put them in danger." Bane counters. He thinks of Miguel's foolishness, of the oversight with Rubio, and shakes his head. "We are low on time."

Like a wild animal Bane's thoughts wander from him again. John's joy at being reunited with his boys had been palpable. Their presence imbued a certain life to him like no other. They couldn't be held away from their city too long, however. Not with their own lives to return to. Joel had a mother that missed him dearly. Tiya even had a family in line waiting to adopt him. The Swithin's boys shared these things openly with Bane, comfortable (if still a little unsettled) by his reveal as Behnam. Their acceptance had come swiftly and their sudden moments of kindness were like stumbling upon lost trinkets on a beachside.

"You know, I always thought your accent sounded kind of similar." Amir told him over lunch -- the boys all took well to Khalil's simple, yet efficient cooking. "I just never brought it up 'cause I was sure you got told that a lot."

"So in trying not to presume overmuch you presumed overmuch." Bane responded with good humor. The boy didn't smile much, not in the early stages of recovery, but he'd laughed. Amir later showed him his sketchbook. Bane had peered for a full minute at the drawing done in his likeness -- he's seen professional artists recreate his image for propaganda and appreciation both, but there's something in the boy's crude linework that strikes him harder than any penstroke that came before. Gotham moving forward with its signature tenacity and unexpected sincerity. A poet couldn't come up with better.

Barbara was willing to shoulder the responsibility of an entire orphanage suddenly going vacant during the chaos. That meant she couldn't stay much longer if she was to properly bridge the gap between the missing St. Swithin's boys and the city. Bane didn't trust her yet, not entirely, but hers was much-needed help in light of John's troubling mental state and his (frustrating and fruitless) attempts at locating Talia and Bruce.

"Once I get the boys back home safe I'm going to go with Harleen to meet with Pamela. We have another story for _her_ , too, if she'll accept it." She affects her voice like a professional journalist. "'A scientific hermit with a deep understanding of this strange new flower could prove an unexpected solution for Gotham's notoriously bad pollution problem'."

She'd gone quiet under Bane's silent stare, then coughed into her fist and straightened herself again.

"This would be a great time for some feedback. Especially since I'm working with the Joker's ex-girlfriend and a cat burglar."

"Fill the silence because you're uncomfortable? Be less interested in hearing what you want to hear, Barbara, and speak." His voice had been hard, but not harsh. "This is your city. You should know how to _help_ it."

Her brown cheeks had darkened with embarrassment. If his harsh tone partially came from his frustration with John, she didn't need to know. It was a sound point irregardless.

"Well. Considering they boys are all safe and sound any story that fills in basic details should fly. Any authorities would believe _my_ concerns for their safety, at least, since I have a solid alibi visiting St. Swithin's regularly. I'm just not sure what to say when they ask _where_ I 'took' the boys." Barbara had sighed and looked suddenly, extraordinarily young. "The nearby islands are small enough that twenty-seven kids would stand out. I couldn't exactly rely on a witness."

"I know just the one." Bane told her. It takes some time to dig through the poorly maintained phonebook, but he finds Rosario's home. He remembers her schedule, from what little he saw over his stay, and calls an hour later when her daughter is no doubt back from tutoring. A deeper voice instead greets him on the other end of the line.

" _Nobody named Rosario lives here. You must have the wrong number._ "

"What of Verónica and Miguel?" There had been some hasty muttering from beyond the phone. It was hard for him not to smile when he heard a shocked gasp, then the high-pitched chatter of a child.

" _...She's out right now, but I could take a message._ " Antonio said, voice tight with what could be apprehension or excitement.

"A message would do, but we're on limited time." Bane puts a smile in his voice. "Tell her a friend could use just one more favor."

Barbara had hugged every single last boy before getting ready to pack for the departure, taking another minute to speak with Salim. The two have been nearly inseparable the past few days. Bane may be behind in more mundane social matters, but he knew a growing friendship when he saw it. A member of the new League and a young woman both following in Batman's footsteps and altering its course. More poetry straight from Gotham's lips.

Barsad is troubled by his constant lapses into silence. Bane has to admit defeat and cut their talk off earlier than he'd like. Something was wrong and he needed to get to the bottom of it soon.

John smiles for his boys, keeps his head held high, but the cracks are starting to spread. The instant he turns away Bane sees something burn behind his eyes. A fire Bane is familiar with, with the source of the heat kept just beyond his reach.

After another day and a half of silence, of distant gazes and unanswered questions and uncomfortable distance, Bane reaches out to Barsad. The second-in-command is startled by his inquiry, but it's less that and more the glint of recognition in his eyes. He knows what it is, he can _see_ it in his eyes, but the man is hesitant to tell him.

"This is...personal." He lowers his head in apology. "I'm sure he'll share when he's ready."

The detective had been profoundly hurt at Bane's secrecy, yet he wouldn't tell him even the most _surface_ level detail of what he was going through. He's angry, even as he feels he shouldn't be. So he asks Finn where he's gone off to.

"Are you going to talk to him? He's been kind of grouchy lately." He asks. The young man is frustrated, too. They share a common ire, but Bane knows where to draw the line.

"Be patient with him." He replies, holding up one hand. "Do you know what's wrong?"

"Nah. The toxin making him crazy, I guess? Maybe worried about Reilly? He keeps telling us he's just stressed, but..." Finn puffs overly-long hair out of his eyes.

"You don't believe him." Bane finishes, with an irritated nod from Finn. "Yes, I know. I'll speak with him and make sure it's nothing so serious."

"Cool. Thanks." He pauses and purses his lips. "So...are you two engaged or something?" Finn asks, crossing his arms and cocking his head to the side. "It's just that Joel keeps telling everyone you're married and I kind of need to set him straight."

"No." Bane raises his eyebrows. "I believe that is the furthest thing from both of our minds right now."

"So why'd he say married, then?" There's a grin playing on Finn's face, held back just barely.

"Because he's seven years old." Bane says with a slight narrow to his eyes. "I see cheekiness runs in the family."

The detective is sitting on the third level, just high enough to properly look over the expanse of forest and bare fields surrounding Gotham. A few of his mercenaries give Bane a knowing nod as he walks by. They're conspicuously absent, however, when Bane leaves the mountain's shadow behind and steps onto the stone ledge into the graying light. Spring is in full bloom, the far hills a sumptuous green and a wet, crisp chill to the wind. A flock of birds speckle the distance, calling for home.

Bane stands next to him in a silent request for permission. Only when John nods, so imperceptibly as to be unnoticeable, does he sit. Mist has settled around them in a chilly shroud. It reminds him of when they walked along one of the many docks around Gotham and shared their lives, one slow yet eager step at a time. The thrill of discovery, however, is absent here. There's little more than an ache to the air, manifesting as surely around John as the white fog obscuring the mountain peak from view.

"...Hey, Bane." A simple word and the gulf between them shrinks to nearly nothing. He's wearing no jacket, only a long-sleeved shirt. "Need me for something?"

"No. You've just been gone a while." Bane shrugs out of his sheepskin coat and drapes it gently over Blake's shoulders. It looks more like a blanket on his smaller frame, and he huddles into it gratefully. Bane disliked the cold, but he disliked seeing John shivering much more. "...We're just worried."

His voice grows small. "...Sorry."

"That remains to be seen. Could you tell me what's going on?" He keeps the humor in his voice light. "I wasn't merely showing off when I said I could carry you."

"Ha." It's a wet laugh, one that cuts through Bane as sure as any knife. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. It's..." He blows out a gust of air and rubs at his reddening nose with the heel of his palm -- it's clear he's been out here for a while. "...Yeah, so...the hospital got back to Barsad with an update. He, uh, used a fake name as an emergency reference for Reilly. My name would just complicate things. So would showing my face, so I couldn't just use a fake one, either..." The wind ruffles them softly. "Barbara's been a huge help."

He's stalling. Bane ignores the impatient clenching in his chest and wills himself not to push, nodding instead.

"She leaves soon. I'll send two with her to ensure she runs into no trouble. Lockdown may be ending, but it's not exactly for the _good_ of the populace. Border patrol is always on the lookout for their five minutes of fame." He waits when John doesn't answer, folding his hands together and idly rubbing his knuckles when the chill starts to settle.

"They said Reilly's not going to make it."

Bane slowly closes his eyes. So _that's_ why he's been acting odd. All he'd heard about the orphanage's old Father was that he'd been grievously injured trying to protect the boys. It wasn't much later after the children arrived did he hear one of the orphans' first-hand accounts that he was _also_ trying to protect John. He hadn't known him well, but Bane had always been skilled at deciphering much with little. Father Reilly was a good man. A much beloved man, at that. His loss would ripple throughout the city.

"He's old. Retirement age, about. He was also getting sick a lot these past months. Doctors said he had issues with his immune system and his stomach lining. Chalk that up with the stress of taking care of the orphanage with little help..." He suddenly stops, as if he's been punched, and Bane can already tell it's a _poisonous_ guilt eating him alive. "He's got another day, probably. Maybe two. They don't know. He's not even conscious right now. They don't...they don't _know_."

Bane wants to tell him what only decades of experience with death can, but now's not the time for his words. John's dark eyes are vacant and unfocused, as if he's not processing what's in front of him, and he doesn't speak again for some time. Long enough for the wind to tumble glumly overhead and pass through a light shower, flecking them with tiny droplets. When he does the rawness in his voice is piercing.

"...I killed a boy named Terry when I was eleven."

The masked man raises his eyebrows. The detective glances at him, stiffly, then reaches beneath the coat into his pocket, pulling out a flattened box of cigarettes and fumbling open its top. He flicks a lighter, fruitlessly, and Bane digs around for his spare. John nods a brief gratitude.

"I remember you told me you killed a person when you were no bigger than Joel. Sometimes it amazes me the things we have in common." He takes in a long, rattling breath. "When I first came to St. Swithin's I was hot off the heels of two other orphanages that didn't want me. When I wasn't starting fights or trying to run away I was speaking funny Yiddish words and making all the so-called mentors uncomfortable. Only one that didn't think I was a weirdo ended up moving out of the city after a few months, anyway. I doubled down on it, you know. Dad tried to make me stop when he was alive and it was one of the few things I had left of Mom. Then Grandma died and I really did stop."

"Terry, he...he was from a place a handful of blocks away. It's not around anymore. Sometimes Reilly would have the kids do a sort of meet-and-greet. A get-together once every other month or so, just a way to...make friends with other orphans. Feel less alone in it all. Except I didn't make any. I got bad at making friends once Mom died and Dad spent more time with his playing cards than he did me before getting shot up. Third time was the charm and Swithin's...I was convinced it was a waste of my time. So every time Reilly brought me over I would just find my own little spot to be by myself."

"Didn't make houses. Just kicked the sand." Bane tilts his head. John doesn't seem to have the energy to elaborate, just shaking his head and flicking ash into the breeze. "Terry was the top dog at his boy's home. He lost a parent to violence, too, and the other just sorta dumped him there and forgot about him. Drug problems, maybe. He figured out pretty early on I was friendless and...aimless and...just a mess. Made me an easy target. He and a bunch of other kids would use me as their punching bag. I was too beat up on the inside to share it with Reilly, and I already had a reputation starting fights on my own half the time, so..."

He takes a puff, then two, then three. He doesn't speak until the flame has traveled halfway down.

"One day he caught me alone at a party. Everyone was visiting relatives or hanging out at the other orphanages for Christmas...my second Christmas without my family. Terry wanted to rub it in my face that he...he recently got adopted. The next year he was going to live with his new parents near Gotham Heights. It was a really big house in a fancy little suburban neighborhood closed off from the rest of the city. Kind of shit all the kids dreamed about. Like something out of...out of a fairytale." John scoffs, smoke wafting around his face, then sobers quickly. "I told him to piss off. He pushed me. I pushed him back. He kicked me in the shin, hardly anything, really, but I slapped him for it. We fought."

His expression has barely changed all the while. As still as a frozen lake. Whatever he's felt over the incident is bled dry, a drained note in his skin. The only hint of emotion is the glisten to his eyes and how he seems to breathe the smoke more easily than clean air.

"I remember picking up something on the ground, anything, to get him to just stop and leave me _alone_. It was a brick. Was so angry I thought it was a rock. I threw it and...I didn't mean to throw it so _hard_." He crushes the cigarette into the ground and pulls out another. He doesn't light this one, pressing it between his fingers and breathing as if he's forgotten how. "He didn't even make a sound."

"Got tried in juvenile court. It got chalked up to a tragic accident. Even then...everyone was convinced nobody would adopt me. I was the child _murderer_. The aloof, unlikable brat always picking fights and never getting along with anybody. Breaking the rules, running off, arguing with caretakers. Never had any friends. Wasn't even accepted into the shitty orphan cliques. Nobody...nobody would've wanted a kid like me." John looks down at his hands. "...But Reilly did." He swallows thickly. "Reilly kept me."

Bane's memory is powerful. Not wanting to miss out on what John's saying he allows himself a brief moment to walk through St. Swithin's again, where photos hung crooked on hallway walls. Young John Blake had been possessed of hard eyes and gangly knees, with more recent snapshots of his childhood showing a gradual blossoming from an angry youth into a confident and compassionate man, as surely as any flower. He'd thought his little Talia to be much the same, but he couldn't have been more wrong.

"Terry always wanted to be a football player. I always saw him playing ball at the park and trying to get people to notice him." His voice cracks now. "He was close to my age, so he might've joined the Gotham Knights by now. Bane, so many of the adults in our lives let us down, but...I was the one to come out of it alive. I still am." He clutches the coat with a white-knuckle grip. "I still am."

It's strange. Here they've been, grieving over loved ones who were not yet dead. The detective still hasn't lit his next cigarette, squeezing it and rolling it between his fingers until it sags. Then he pulls at it, softly tearing it apart until its yellow innards bubble up and drift to the ground like sand. In all the time Bane's known him he's never seen him waste one. It almost disturbs him more than the story.

"Bane...?" He asks after a few minutes of choking silence. The masked man wants nothing more than to reach out and pull him to his chest. He instead leans forward, huddling just close enough for their shoulders to brush. Just enough to let him know.

"Yes?"

"Can you...tell me a little about Lael?"

That makes him pause. It's odd to hear her name from his mouth. From anyone's. It takes him the better part of a minute to realize he's kept the memory of a wonderful woman as selfishly as any possession. The question itself hardly does justice to her name. For all that they'd known each other for a short time (a year, perhaps, maybe less).

He'd kept too many things from John. He could dust off this memory and let him hold it.

"Lael..." Bane starts, closing his eyes and letting the dark kick up the haze of memory. "She was..."

_...a storm taken human shape._

Prisoners didn't visit each other. Loneliness was as omnipresent as the guards that haunted the top of the pit. It watched them closely. It exerted its will with an icy disdain. The only element more powerful than loneliness was hunger. Prisoners could visit one another's cells, attempt a bond, much less a conversation, but just because they _could_ didn't mean they would. Partnerships were formed rarely. Intermittently. Sometimes they ended with a fight. Other times with a murder.

Forming friendships meant complacency. Complacency meant a prolonged suffering. So prisoners would dance with loneliness as soon as reject it, if only for another longing look at escape above as they whittled away their life below ground.

Hope...was not a sustaining meal.

When the pit's only female member appeared in front of his cell's bars he'd thought her little more than a fever dream. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had waking nightmares of his fellows plotting his demise, each one more bloody than the last. Only when she tapped the metal to get his attention did he acknowledge her presence beyond a glance.

"Behnam...?" She'd never spoken his name before, or _looked_ at him, and it startles him so much he doesn't know what to do. "Can we talk? I have a favor to ask."

"...A favor."

"It won't be long. I assure you."

He makes sure she's unarmed before letting her inside. She's thin and somewhat small, yes, but he's seen firsthand how adrenaline and madness can transform even the sickest creature's fingers into a death trap. Behnam also bids her stay on the opposite end of the cell. Just in case. She kicks back her skirt and kneels, folding her hands over her knees in a strange fashion. Lael's eyes travel the length of the cell, pausing only to hold on his carefully tended corner of books. Her gaze snaps back to him when he growls protectively, a low note of warning in the very back of his throat.

There's an odd smell to her, something rich and earthy that makes his nose tingle. It can only be something from above, a cue he knows immediately he'll only ever associate with her, if he ever were to smell it again.

"...Why are you here?" Behnam asks.

"Yaakov told me about you." She doesn't elaborate _what_ , but it's soon made clear with her next words. "...I need you to guard my child."

"Why?"

"In the event that I can't."

Behnam proceeds to learn Lael's elusive child is not a boy, but a _girl_.

He'd assumed the mother had sheltered her child so jealously out of necessity. Indeed, that was an understandable factor in a hole filled with killers. But sheltering her from sight, keeping her heavily bundled...there was a deeper desperation there. Behnam would think of his own mother, but his memories have worn soft from time, her face as blurry as a reflection in the water, and the only emotions he can muster is a hint of pity. Lael must feel truly helpless to ask for _his_ protection.

Yaakov must not have told her he's been asked this before, sought out for his brawny size and familiarity with the pit's inner mechanisms, and he considers how best to tell her as she continues to speak.

"I can give you anything you want once I leave." She follows up quickly. "My father owns many plots of land. He can give you a house, a job, horses. A marriage contract, if you so desire. I may be disowned, but there are people who love me, and my child will have an opportunity for better. Even if she can't inherit, it will be better than here..."

Behnam shifts from where he hunches against the cold stone and watches her quietly. He has no frame of reference for these things. He knew _of_ them, because prisoners would speak of their lives to any in earshot when the loneliness became too much to bear, but they were as distant as the words in his books. Far-away concepts from far-away lands. Nothing more. Nothing less. She's unsettled by his silence and, when he refuses her, her voice takes on a more desperate tone.

"This is your new home." He says, blandly, and pulls his worn shift up around his shoulders. "Nobody escapes the pit."

"They will come for me." She rebukes, voice harder than stone. "Do you just want money? Because I can get you money..."

"No."

"I can...give you my body." She holds herself like the queens in his novel, head held high and shoulders at rest, but her eyes hold little else but fear. As if she's facing an execution. "You can do what you please."

She says this with far less fervor. Indeed, it matches his own sentiments. This was _another_ thing men valued, but Behnam was considered strange for more reasons than one. Sex was never of any interest to him, even the rare time his loins would stir unpredictably in the late hours of the night. Like food and water this animal urge was handled quickly, efficiently. Something humans were anything _but_. Behnam didn't want to be touched and she didn't want him touching him. This was as plain as water, so he shakes his head, again, and hopes the disgust shows on his face.

"Then what _do_ you want?" Lael slumps, exasperated. "Just tell me."

Want? Behnam didn't want. He _needed_. He needed the dark to shield him, food and water to sustain him, books and malleable stone to keep him from losing his mind. He wouldn't take her food and water, not when he had more than enough (and it was a wonder she's survived this long, all things considering). She needed the dark perhaps more than he and there was plenty to spare. Sanity, however...she could be, however indirectly, offering him sanity. His interest peaks at the new potential in her request and he thinks deeply on it.

Giving him something he wanted. It could mean her continued presence, that of which was already getting under his skin and making him want to retreat from the center of a pit for a personal eternity. It would mean...noise. Words no doubt _swarming_ in the silence like dust and choking him senseless. People from above chattered so much, like birds but more unpredictable, more _malicious_ , and even Lael's gentle delivery has the potential to be corrupted.

His mind clutches potential firm in its grasp, holding it up to the light to explore every possible angle, unwilling to let these (admittedly tantalizing) drawbacks sway him just yet. What could she offer him the other prisoners (some dead, some still lingering rows away) could not? Like a flame from a match the memory snaps to being, sudden and rippling with prospect. Behnam saw her rarely, but when he _did_ she was often...

"Knit."

"I'm sorry?"

"...Teach me how to knit." Behnam asks, forming the unfamiliar word carefully. His voice is worn from disuse and she doesn't hear him the first time, just narrowing her eyes and tilting her head, so he repeats. "I will protect her if you teach me how...to knit."

Lael's eyes widen into black spots.

"...How _dare_ you." She breathes. It's worse than if she'd screamed. "It's not enough I am in this forsaken _place_. You _mock_ me, as well? Mock my child?"

Her rage is palpable. A mother's fury, something he knows like he knows his bones yet still wholly _alien_ , and it's this sudden unknown that makes him pull back sharply. The woman is already steeling for a fight. Indeed, she looks ready to outright strike him with those small fists. He could hurt her -- it wouldn't be hard, not with her soft upbringing wrapped around her like an extra shawl -- but he didn't _want_ to.

She'd asked him what he wanted. Did he not even know how to do that?

"You asked me. I told you." He's redundant, but he has to be, he's trying to make himself as clear as possible and something has gone horribly awry. "I don't understand your anger."

"You don't _understand?_ I'm angry because you're not taking this seriously!" The activity of the prisoners hitches below, just barely. She remembers to lower her voice, though it does nothing to dampen the rage. "How are a few sewing lessons in exchange for a child's safety a fair exchange? Yaakov said you were unusual, yes, but _sane_."

His sanity was debateable, but it's less this that makes him narrow his eyes. Fair? Fairness was a concept for _above_. Not for the pit, where brute strength and sallow desperation were the only things standing between a person and an ugly death. Behnam was growing frustrated with this woman and every new complicated idea she brought forth. First she asks him what he wants, then tells him he's not allowed because of people he doesn't even _know_. She may be a prisoner, but right now she reminded him less of the wretched company that filled the cells and more of the guards that patrolled the upper walls.

"You asked me." He repeats, voice growing bright with heat. "I _told_ you."

"They told me you were strange...that you were here since childhood...but they said nothing about being cruel." The next words are dripping with condensation. "Do you not know? Men don't _knit_."

It's that remark, so casual and so supremely ignorant, that sparks the anger into a blistering flame. Behnam lurches forward and growls:

" _I am barely a man_." He wouldn't yell, not when it could attract attention, so he lets his frustration build in every syllable. "You asked. I told you. If you won't teach me how to knit, then get _out_."

The woman stares at him, fingers tangled tight through the hem of her skirt, and says nothing for what feels like an eternity. Then she stands, turns, yanks open the door and leaves as quickly as she came. So quickly he's not sure the conversation ever happened. It's only the unusual scent she leaves in her wake (a tea blend he would soon know as Earl Grey), that corrects him when he gets to his feet again.

Lael would return later with a bundle in her arms, after the sun passed overhead multiple times and another death echoed through the pit. Even with the other prisoners watching from a distance, Behnam doesn't let her inside the cell until she shows him what she's holding. It's not her child, nor a weapon, but handfuls of soft, colorful yarn.

"So _that's_ why you knit so much." John's tone is wondering, temporarily suspended above his pain. "I could tell it meant a lot to you..."

Bane would believe his to be a superficial understanding, if he didn't already know the detective to be skilled at looking beyond the surface. Whenever he knits it's as if Lael's sitting next to him, murmuring her thoughts like lyrics to a song.

"Mari never made it." Lael tells him one time they're eating together. Her pregnancy had been a phenomenon, told only through the whispers that rippled from prisoner to prisoner like a chill -- some fathers, others mere opportunists -- and he'd stood up to attention instantly. "All I wanted was for Talia to have a friend here and she's all alone. You _have_ to keep her company, Behnam. You can't hide away and skulk in the shadows like you always do. Sing to her when she's scared. Read her books. Make up games to play with her."

He was a _hungry_ reader. Whenever the guards threw down books -- tattered leaflets, paperbacks, magazines -- he'd fight tooth and nail for the right of exclusive ownership. Many of his scars (admittedly, rather old) were from fights for these material things. Games were possible, though adapting his mind to wrap around the whims of another would prove taxing, he could tell already. Singing...

"I don't know how to sing." Behnam huffs over his food. Although Lael has never stolen from him, he was still hesitant to show her its contents.

"Then I'll teach you how."

"I don't like to make noise."

"You don't like a _lot_ of things, Behnam." Her tone was harsh, but something else glittered in her curved eyes. "We'll start with a lullaby. My mother sang this to me when I was a girl."

She sang a song, a ballad about the open sky, and he was so captivated he temporarily forgot to eat.

Only when the circle above shifted from gray to blue, the only lights left the ones nursed between shivering hands, did she teach him this bizarre skill. He'd heard singing before, from Yaakov and once from Asaf, but _never_ a voice like hers. Like birdsong, effortless and _sweet_ , filling the space of his cell with a presence he could only describe as otherworldly. Other prisoners would linger closer to his cell than usual whenever she graced the pit with her song (an anomaly Behnam would swiftly correct with just a look). Sometimes Yaakov would ask her to sing to help him sleep.

Any attempts to mimic her had felt inherently insulting. Behnam was barely suited to _talking_ , much less molding words into a soothing chant. Lael would correct his harsh notes with endless patience, often smiling, and it took some time before he learned she wasn't mocking him, but embracing him.

"She's not the only one with my protection." Behnam tells her after one of many practice sessions, voice scratchy with overuse. "I would kill every last person in this pit to see you safe."

"Do you think you can?" She'd looked so _sad_ , even when she smiled for him, and he wouldn't understand this contradiction for many, many years. "Perhaps you're not as sane as I once thought, Behnam. Now. Try again from the beginning."

It takes writing by daylight, occasionally by lamplight and _many_ failed attempts humming in the far corner of his cell, but Behnam eventually comes up with a song for Lael. A gift, maybe. He's never given anyone a gift before, though the concept isn't foreign. He's had a few people attempt to _bribe_ him for his help, Lael included, but this was different. Much, much different. He hears this melody when he dreams. The lyrics are like an elusive animal, sometimes having him wait patiently and other times forcing him to dig.

All the way across the expanse of the pit he hears Lael sing it to Talia. It's a high honor, a tiny flame that warms him when he curls up on his cot after nightfall.

"...Wow." The corner of the detective's mouth twitches. "Lael sounded like an amazing person."

"I owe her my life." Bane says, rubbing at the heavy callouses on his palms. Lael, who was gone. Talia, who was lost. Bane, who was here and struggling to be. "Sometimes I feel I owe her everything I am."

"Yeah." John whispers, curling his legs against his chest with just his head and the tip of his shoes showing from beneath the coat's furry hem. "...Right."

She wouldn't be taken away by a disease, something like the plague that had cut down the pit's population to less than half and left it a graveyard filled with dead and living voices. Not a slip on wet stone like Jasper, a young man who might have held the strength to climb the stone without the rope, nor by her own hand like dozens before. Nothing tragic. Nothing with agency. Nothing more than a lapse in _judgment_. A smudge on memory's finicky script by an old, weary, overworked doctor who just forgot to lock her cell door.

A death so _undignified_ a thousand more to follow couldn't dim its bitter aftertaste.

A sigh ripples through Bane, as all-encompassing as the ocean. She deserved so much _better_. Reilly's death was not so ignoble, but John's peace wasn't like his own. The man was no stranger to grief after the loss of his parents, but the Father occupied an especially tender place in his heart. As long as this new wound was exposed to the air his healing would come slowly...and hopefully surely.

"He told me what I was doing could blow back on the boys." John starts, voice tight with regret. "I didn't _listen_. I just kept going with all my big plans to 'save the city' and follow in Batman's footsteps and make up for being part of a shit organization...all that effort when I could've just listened to him in the _first_ place. They came because of me. All because of _me_."

"The actions of a corrupted city of ten million are _not_ yours to claim alone." Bane corrects, gently. "You did what you could to protect your family down the road."

"Pft. Barsad brought the boys over here. Barsad _and_ Harleen, really, since she's the one that gave Finn my contact info. I told her not to tell them too much, actually, but she ended up having much better foresight than I did. If Joel hadn't _contacted_ me...they've just...they've both done more than I _ever_ did." It's blatantly untrue, something Bane's _sure_ John knows, so he lets the grief spill forth without further comment. "What the hell am I going to do? How can I run the orphanage when I'm still wanted? Don't... _don't_ tell the boys yet." He says, suddenly, voice thick and struggling. "I will, soon. Just..."

"Of course, John." Bane murmurs. "Of course."

The mist has faded through the trees to join its brethren beyond the horizon. Bane reaches over and gently tugs up the coat collar to push away the growing cold. John doesn't respond, or move, or pull away, staring ahead into the expanse with glinting eyes. Then he buries his face into his hands and takes one long, shaky breath after another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo would turn out to be me just working on a mass **ton** of fics while drafting original work and collaborating story ideas with a friend.
> 
> I'm all for stepping off the beaten path as long as it takes me where I want to go.
> 
>  
> 
> also I might make this fic one or two chapters longer, but I'm not sure, all I know is I want to give this very bloated story I've been working on for a year the closure it deserves


	63. Gotham Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for discussions of suicidal ideation.

"Sorry, broken glass..." John starts, peering at the floor.

His arrival is unexpected, but not unwelcome. Bane's skin grows hot with shame and he hastily bends down to pick up the few spare shards he missed from the mirror he threw. Like usual the man's eyes narrow with questions, but he pretends he doesn't notice. Bane simply waves him away when he tries to help and bobs his chin toward the room's spare chair.

"So. There's something weird about Crane's toxin." He starts with a moody crossing of his arms -- he would have to simply deal with Bane keeping his abode clean _personally_. "The things I saw...I've tried to excuse it, over and over, but there's no logical way to explain."

"What are you saying, John?" He asks as he shakes the leftover glass into the trash.

"You could use it to see where Talia and Bruce ended up." He holds up a quick hand. "It's just a suggestion. You've seen what it does to people and I definitely wouldn't blame you if you didn't want to try."

Bane stares at him. Logic and dreams were intermittent partners. They could loathe each other as much as crave each other's company. He was kept busy with dreams every time he closed his eyes, but he would sooner listen to what they were trying to tell him than brush them aside. The biggest concern was whether or not Crane's 'chemicals' would _actually_ constitute a respectable nightmare.

"Where would I find it? The good doctor's schedule seems quite booked for the foreseen future and your work with Pamela has seen Gotham cleared up." He tilts his head. "...So to speak." John snorts, then reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a metal ball. Bane stiffens at the sight. He hadn't seen these himself, but he remembers the man speaking of them -- customized devices small enough to fit in a pocket and virulent enough to spread toxin around for multiple blocks with populations none the wiser.

"I'm not sure how much is left, since he used this on me, but..." He sees temptation in his eyes, like a recovered addict catching a whiff of their past again, but it dies out quickly. "I grabbed it before I escaped. Before..."

Bane holds up a hand for his pause as he sits back on the cot, not wanting him to relive these still-fresh moments. He rolls the thought in and out of his head -- he was spiritual, for the most part, but it takes a good amount of his energy to wrap his mind around the possibility of Crane's scientific achievement. They had temporarily shelved this conversation out of necessity and it takes him a few minutes to catch himself up to speed.

"...An alternate reality?" He finally gives voice to his thoughts. "Or a premonition?"

"Shit. Maybe?" This is where he and John overlap. For all their differences in approach and life experience, they were both practical men. Hesitant to embrace the surreal if they could help it. "I have no idea _what_ to call it. But it's too uncanny. I've put the pieces together and there's no way I could've known some of the stuff I saw in my dreams." He bobs his leg in thought, staring at Bane intensely. "...Visions?"

"Perhaps." Bane folds his hands beneath his chin. "Somehow you knew of Talia _and_ Mari. Of Lael. I had never told you, even the rare time I wanted to." He looks up from where he'd been staring at the floor. "These memories were kept rather jealously."

"Yeah." The detective looks quietly disturbed. This would be a conundrum for anyone, even if they weren't devoted to unraveling the truth. "My memory is a little scrambled, but I honestly don't remember you telling me about that. If anything I wanted you to share _more_..." He trails off. It now goes without saying Bane's secrecy is an unwelcome element to their relationship.

"These little details..." Bane continues. "...you believe I could find something incriminating?"

"I mean, those weren't the only things that ended up being true." His stare loses focus, a worried knit growing on his brow, and Bane follows up quickly to keep him grounded in reality.

"If I couldn't find Talia and Bruce with my own two hands...how could I claim my title?" John's face slowly relaxes. A fond expression that temporarily chases away the lines on his forehead and makes him look youthful again. He puts the ball back in his pocket again.

"You never _did_ take the easy way out." He pauses. "Uh, speaking of which..."

"Yes?"

"Well, I wanted..." He rubs his hair, then pulls out a small box from the inner jacket pocket -- it's the worn-out chess set his mercenaries would busy themselves with on their free time. Simple games like chess, checkers and word puzzles were a good way of relaxing while still keeping the mind sharp. "I wanted to know if you'd like to play a round."

"Yes." Bane smiles. "I'd like that."

It's an intense round, which means it's so quiet he can _just_ make out the sound of the boys playing all the way down the hall. Apparently they're roleplaying -- Jai and Emanuel were clearly enjoying playing the part of fantasy fighters with Joel. The little boy's squeals travel in and out of his periphery, suggesting he's running back and forth, and occasionally Trevor's barks follow. He couldn't focus overmuch on the details, however. Not when Blake had put his knight in a particularly clever spot and eradicated two of his plans.

"You told me about that dream of yours." Bane taps his mask in thought, then moves his rook. He would wait him out here. The man was smart, yes, but impatient. "Where I was an archaeologist."

"An archaeologist _and_ secret cage fighter, don't forget." Blake corrects with a smirk, only to scoff in frustration when he sees his newly placed piece.

"Ah. Of course." Bane gives him a look of mild appeasement before turning his attention back to the board. "...Were you ever tempted to remain?"

"Yeah." A soft _click_ as he places his pawn, a warm smile curling his mouth. "...Nothing like the real thing, though."

\--

Another storm passes over the mountain, much windier than even the deepest Gotham winter flurry and bringing plenty of thunder. The mercenaries have to slow down their activity on the outer levels. It's a rare spot of peace. Blake savors every minute.

The boys are sleeping much better and their injuries have healed wonderfully. Sadly if it's not one thing, it's _another_. Bane is visibly exhausted constantly training, planning and tending to the boys -- he doesn't talk much, even when he has a kid on his lap and is patiently listening to whatever story they feel like telling him. Barsad is in a similar boat. Harleen has been extremely worried about her Acres crew and the, as she puts it, 'million and a half flash dance routines' she'll have to perform once she returns to Gotham. Just because they all have to recover doesn't suddenly make it an easy thing to do.

They need to unwind or, as _Barsad_ so elegantly puts it, ' _Gotham's smog might have some competition for most untimely cause of death_ '. Even Selina can't disagree with that, though she makes quite a show about gracing them with her presence in the main hall when they gather to eat dinner, reclining close to Harleen and keeping one cheek permanently turned to the conversation. While most of the mercenaries are on the upper levels or in their quarters, a handful linger in the room talking amongs themselves and warming up after a run through the elements.

Barbara puts up a good front, but it's clear as crystal she's still not comfortable being surrounded by the mini-army her grandfather's Department has been chasing for months. Blake tries to get her to hang out but she lingers away, uncharacteristically quiet. Once Barsad pulls out a few bottles of booze and asks if they'd like a drink, the tense atmosphere _finally_ cracks.

Their stores are simple, but varied -- Khalil rather smugly reminds Blake they have a few benefactors in Gotham who are quite happy to put aside a little extra for them for 'all their hard work'. Bane finds them curled up on a few of the League's pullout rugs with half-eaten bowls of dinner and cups of quickly mixed drinks.

"What are we celebrating?" Bane asks as he peers down at them, shrugging his coat off and shivering off leftover rain.

"Lockdown finally being over?" Blake shrugs.

"Being alive?" Barsad offers.

"The long-awaited sequel to 'Mad Love''?" Harleen pipes, only to scowl quickly at their twin blank expressions. "...Oh, don't act like you don't know."

When Salim isn't upstairs and scouting he's keeping the boys company, so he seems borderline giddy to get a little alone time with Barbara. He's the straw that breaks the camel's back, making her smile for what seems like the first time all day. The sniper teaches her a traditional Kazakh dance by the furnace that acts as the room's main source of heat -- he's clearly impressed with how quickly she picks it up, bushy brows bouncing with surprise every time she mirrors his moves with near-perfect accuracy. They ask Blake to give it a try and he just laughs and takes another swig.

"I don't dance." He insists. "Especially not _that_ fast."

"You will after a few more of those." Barbara quips before being pulled back into the little space she and Salim have been occupying in the shadow. Blake watches their budding affection with a mixture of fascination and trepidation. It's not that he disapproved of her taste -- Salim was a good man -- but he wondered how long it'd last with their differing lifestyles. Clearly the drink in his hand isn't doing enough if he's still lingering on depressing thoughts, so he remedies that with another generous refill.

"You are truly wonderful, you know that?" He sighs to his cup once the buzz starts to settle. He means it as a whisper, but of course it carries.

"You're _talking_ to the alcohol?" Barsad asks, mildly, on his third vodka shot and not showing the faintest hint of a buzz. Then again, he _was_ a native Russian. "You worry me sometimes."

"It's not _that_ weird." Selina smirks, reclining lazily against her and Harleen's packs. A good drink went a long way with her.

"He also speaks to his dog." Bane adds as _his_ means of entering into the conversation. Blake flushes when everyone bursts out into laughter.

"Oh, shut up. Everyone does it!" He gestures at the former cat burglar. "Even Selina was sticking up for me."

"Do you also talk to your-" Harleen starts, only for Blake to hold up a finger and interrupt brusquely.

"I don't talk to my _dick_ , Harleen."

"I wasn't even gonna _say_ dick!" She cries, looking to Selina for more support and to no avail.

Barbara is guffawing into her hands -- being a year shy of drinking age hasn't stopped her from drinking like a fish. The conversation becomes about as lax as the alcohol pumping through their veins. They talk about everything that comes to mind, from hopes for Gotham's finalized lockdown to the new laws that'll be written into effect. At one point they get into a pretty hefty argument about the best industrial coating for handguns, which is a conversation he hasn't had since he was in the force. He's glad to see Bane and Barsad enjoying themselves, though they're easily the quietest of the bunch.

The masked man, in particular, seems more interested in listening than contributing -- he's sitting with his back against one of the many boxes of equipment filling the stone hall, eyes roaming lazily from one speaker to the next, though they occasionally stop on the bottle of vodka by the cluster of extra glasses.

"What're you two gonna do once you go back?" Blake asks Selina after she finishes a long diatribe about the sorry state of her apartment.

"Pft. Forget going back. I'm out of here." She punctuates her words with a deep drink. Harleen glances sideways at her, a hopeful gleam on her face. Blake gives her a meaningful look, but she takes it as a sign to conveniently roll her eyes up to the ceiling and remark that she can't see shit.

Bane has undone a part off the front of his mask to tip down some vodka straight. Blake likes alcohol (how could he _not_ growing up in Gotham for thirty years) but he finds himself _cringing_ at the man's incredible constitution. Even Barsad chose to mix his with a little black raspberry.

"You sure you'll be all right?" Blake whispers to him once he's done with another painful looking swig. Bane clasps the mask shut and gestures with the top of the bottle.

"The analgesic is turned down." He assures, only to blink slowly when Blake shakes his head.

"No, no, that's strong _stuff._ You're going to have the worst hangover of your life if you keep this up."

"Just don't start flipping over tables." Selina mutters out of the side of her mouth. Bane bows his head, eyes crinkled a little _too_ sharply.

"If the mood strikes me, you will be the _first_ to know."

Blake gives him a nudge, the kind of nudge that hopefully discourages him from starting a drunken brawl, and takes another deep drink.

"I'm gonna to be _redacted_ in a month. Can you believe it?" Harleen sighs as she holds her cup out for a refill. "You should gimme some of that anti-aging serum you're usin', Barbie."

"I keep _telling_ you, I'm just younger than I old." Barbara stresses. "Older than I...young. ...Look." Words are clearly beyond her and she snickers helplessly into Salim's shoulder. The man looks both startled and pleased, holding her up carefully with an arm around her waist (and a telltale flush to his cheeks), like she's a Jenga tower about to collapse. "You keep picking on me when Blake over there looks like he never made it past twenty-two. Hey, actually, didn't- _hic_ -Reilly always tell you to leave him a map to your secret fountain of youth?"

The sound of his name stings, but the alcohol keeps it at bay.

"...Ha, yeah. He did." A fond memory tickles the back of his mind. "I remember when he asked if I wanted to do a Bar Mitzvah when I turned thirteen. Guy's Christian and had no idea what the hell he was doing, but he wanted me to feel welcome any way he could, you know. After I moved in officially." Blake feels something painful clenching in his throat, so he leans back and closes his eyes, choosing to focus on the way his head swims pleasantly. "To be fair, I didn't know what I was doing, either..."

Bane looks sideways at him, expression carefully blank with the bottle held loose between forefinger and thumb.

"A toast to Reilly and his good-bad birthday party ideas. Whatta guy!" Harleen crows, holding up her now-filled cup. Selina raises hers and so does Barbara. Barsad's eyes flick his way and he tilts his head respectfully, mirrored just a second later by Bane. Blake tries to register the stinging in the corner of his eyes.

"...To Reilly."

Hours later and they've wound down to the point Bane actually gets _drunk_ , much to their surprise and delight (and Selina's visible dread). If Blake didn't know better he'd record it on his phone (he's buzzed, but not _that_ buzzed). The temptation only grows stronger, though, when Trevor pads into the room, bored and curious now that the boys have gone to bed. Bane jerks forward with a start.

"Where did _they_ come from?" He snaps. Barsad and Salim both immediately sit up to attention, only to slacken when they see what he's looking at.

"...That's Trevor." Barsad responds. The dog trots over at the sound of her name and tries to shove her nose in his cup, which he holds out of reach.

"Should I take her out...?" Salim offers dutifully.

"No, the _others_." Bane emphasizes with an impatient wave of his hand at the empty space around her. The second-in-command tries his damndest not to laugh, but Harleen has no inhibitions. Her cackle is almost deafening.

" _Wow._ The Bane Train has totally derailed. Bet I could knock you on your ass now, huh?" Harleen taunts with a wave of her bottle. Bane raises his eyebrows at her challenge, temporarily forgetting his double-vision.

"Try not to bet _too_ much, Harleen." He flexes his thick arms. "Your odds leave much to be desired."

" _Ooh._ " She gasps back, delighted. "I think I've got a new challenger!" Her look becomes sly. "Seems like the alcohol's going down a little quick, though, yeah? Forgot to bring your hollow legs to the mountain fort?"

"Rather." Bane is quick to correct her. "Work and little play has defined my lifestyle for years. I try not to waste my precious time vodka drinking overmuch. ... _Drinking_ vodka overmuch." His brows furrow at the hitches in his normally fluid delivery. "...Yes."

Harleen nudges Blake gleefully, who's valiantly pressing down his lips in a frugal attempt to hold back his snickering. Barbara seems kind of fascinated, quirking an eyebrow at Barsad, then Salim, probably confused at having a contender for the most tipsy person in the room. ...Well, that or she was just stunned to see a more human side to the legendary masked man still making headlines the next city over. Bane's brow furrows deeper as he peers at all of them, calm expression dropping to a scowl.

"What."

"You're funny." Blake tries, going for placating, complete with a light shrug and easy smile. It doesn't work.

"I've said and done nothing _funny_."

No, it's not funny. It's kind of hilarious. Bane keeps blinking at them like a giant owl and Blake's not entirely sure the guy is aware he's swaying. While it'd be funny to watch him lumber through his rare dance with being hammered, he's six foot something and weighs nearly twice as much as he does. It'd be a feat just getting him into _bed_ in one piece. So Blake takes the initiative and plucks the bottle out of his hands. It's more than halfway down.

"All right, I think that's enou-" He starts, only to freeze when Bane grabs his forearm with a grip that'd put a construction claw to shame.

"That's _mine_."

"It's Barsad's, actually." He tries to pull away, even though it's a foregone conclusion. "I don't think he'd appreciate you hogging all of it."

"The alcohol and I are unfinished business. ... _Have_ unfinished business." The entire group, dog included, turns and stares at him. Bane takes note of their reaction with a pause, then sighs audibly through his nose and lets go reluctantly. "...Perhaps...I've had too much."

"Really?" Selina chimes in, again, and it's more than possible _she's_ drunk now with how quickly her caution has left her. "With all your crazy ideas about giving Gotham bombs as well-wishing gifts I would've thought you drank _way_ more often."

"Reducing years of careful planning to besotted impulses. I see why you and Bruce got along so well." His posh accent somehow undermines _and_ underscores his threatening tone. "All _talk_."

"I can do _much_ more than talk, _Bane-_ " She hisses back, gripping her cup tightly.

"Let's call it a night, huh?" Blake intervenes as they both start to get to their feet.

The peaceful night went from 0 to 100 so quickly, but he knows that the 100 could hit _1,000_ no problem at all. He hooks the man's arm around his shoulder in a makeshift yoke and tries his best not to be bowled over as Bane staggers to his feet. He's certainly not the worst drunk he's had to partially carry (that feat would go to _Barbara_ , despite her tiny frame), but he's definitely the heaviest. Blake nods at the two of them as he makes his way out of the hall.

"I'm going to get this guy to bed before we start knocking out teeth. Make good decisions, you two." He tells the two lovebirds in the corner. Barbara sticks her tongue out at him in response and Salim gives him a crooked smile from behind her curly hair.

' _Be careful._ ' Barbara mouths at him, nodding at Bane's swaying form. Blake shakes his head with a smile.

' _Don't worry._ ' He mouths back, then, "Come on, Bane. Keep up."

Bane throws one last glower at not Selina, but _Trevor_ before they leave the room.

" _Strange_ dog..."

It's a long walk through the tunnels, Bane keeping a steady ramble with his cheek pressed against the side of Blake's head, far less eloquent than he usually is thanks to however much vodka he'd been chugging. A few times he stumbles over his own feet, nearly taking Blake down with him, and it takes all of his remaining strength to haul him through the door and push him toward the cot when they finally arrive to his quarters.

"Stay." Bane mumbles as he tips onto his side with a _creak_ , the worn-out mattress not too happy about the sudden load.

"No, _you_ stay." Blake instructs, flicking on the lantern by his bed so he can get back out without tripping. "I'll be back, don't worry."

Bane takes him by the arm again, tugging a little for good measure. It'd be cute if he didn't suddenly forget his strength.

"Okay, okay, that hurts." Blake protests, lightly enough, but he's wincing. Bane's eyes widen and he lets go so suddenly Blake nearly falls over. He dips his head down, tone becoming self-defeating and morose.

"...I don't want to hurt you."

Blake shakes his head and rubs his arm. Damn. There was definitely going to be another bruise come morning. "Hey, you're fine. You're just really strong."

It doesn't seem to work. Bane's experiencing the _other_ effect of drinking too much and losing himself in the feeling. He rubs a hand across his face, fingers rising and falling over the front of his mask. He brushes over it again, then _again_ , as if he's not quite sure it's all the way on.

"I never...I never want to hurt you." He mumbles, barely intelligible with his slurred words and already thick accent. "This wasn't..."

"Hey." Blake leans down and gives his cheek a firm kiss. "I know."

"Do I hurt you, John?"

"...You've hurt me before, yeah, but you don't _hurt_ me." Blake curls fingers beneath his chin and lifts his face to his. "I've hurt you, too, you know."

Bane's eyes flick back and forth, a little slow to the uptake, then he relaxes, reaching up to cup his face between both hands. _Now_ he's wondering if he's just flat-out high. Upon quick reflection Blake remembers the numbing gas in his mask. Even though he said he'd turned it down to balance out the alcohol, it was still a little bit extra mixing in his system and making him borderline loopy.

"Oh. Hm. There it is again." The crow's feet around his eyes crinkle deeply. He's probably grinning. "That _smile_."

"Ha." Sober Bane would've delicately thumbed his cheek or stroked his hair. Drunk Bane is just...petting his face over and over again like it's made out of expensive velvet. "Now I _know_ you're smashed."

"Inebriation merely brings out what was swimming beneath the surface." Just like that he's eloquent again, even as he's slumping back and clearly two seconds away from passing out. "I have told you this before and will repeat as many times as necessary." He rests a hand on his shoulder, gripping briefly, then relaxing, as if to assure him he's on his best behavior. "...Keep me company."

Chest hot with affection, Blake nudges him up a little to better sidle onto the mattress to hold his head in his lap. The others could keep themselves entertained (and Barsad or Harleen could hopefully soothe down Selina's hackles in his absence).

"I thought I could stop think...stop thinking about them...but now I see them everywhere..." Bane murmurs, fiddling with the lower button on his coat. Blake reaches over and takes his hand in his, the other curled around his shoulder from where his head nestles in the crook of his arm. "For once I don't want to be alone..."

"Who...?"

"Everyone." He sounds almost plaintive. It's bizarre to hear. "Everyone I have ever known."

"Well. You said it yourself." He responds. "Alcohol just makes it all float to the top." Blake squeezes his hand. "You can talk about it if you like." When Bane looks more confused than responsive he adds, "Who do you see?"

"Many. Lael and Talia...sometimes prisoners from the pit...sometimes you..." He punctuates that last one by pawing at his shirt, as if to make sure he's real. "Ra's has shadowed me more these days."

"Must suck to see people you don't like." Blake offers. "Harder to move on."

"I did...everything I could to please Ra's." Each word is breathless and slow, like a long sigh that never quite ends. "He was...the closest I had to a role model. Someone to emulate for the first time, truly, a callback to that childhood I never had. I was...mm...old clay, hardened and misshapen. I had little malleability left, but his hand was firm. Whatever didn't bend would chip away...crumble...and scatter. I attempted to mold myself all those long years...nothing as elegant as his visions, nothing so sleek and rounded...I was forever uneven. An eternal bruise on his person."

"My rebirth as Bane had been not just physical, but idealistic. Soon I was becoming one of the League's most well-known members, in so much as we could _be_ well-known. It's ironic, no? The faceless becoming the face." He chuckles deeply, a rolling vibration that travels through Blake's legs, and he affectionately thumbs the man's cheek. Bane closes his eyes and lets out a pleased _hmm_ , then continues. "I think he'd been shaken by my growth...yes, I think so. He hadn't expected me to overcome the...my distaste of...crowds. My long stretches of silence."

"You have a way with words." Blake admits. "I never would've guessed you used to be a man of _few_ words."

"Thank you." Bane responds, cheered. Blake sputters a fond laugh.

"You're welcome, big guy."

"It was easy to simply...fall in step with the person I wanted to be. Not Behnam, startled by the grass beneath his feet, wracked by pain, thoughtless from nightmares... _Bane_." Now he sighs, breath warm against the curve of Blake's arm as he turns his head toward his stomach and lets his eyes drift closed for a moment. "Bane, who was none of these things."

"But he was." Blake traces the flat of his thumb beneath Bane's eye. At one point he hadn't been able to tell the color, having never gotten the chance to get close enough. Now he's thinking about how similar they are to a Gotham storm in the fall. "...Right?"

"...I think so. ...Yes." Bane reaches up and curls fingers behind his neck, urging him down. Blake leans close and feels the cold front of his mask bump against his lips in a makeshift kiss. He returns the gesture with a lingering press to the man's cheek, then to the side of his forehead where the straps separate, then ever so lightly on his eyelid. "...I always was..." Bane trails off and goes quiet.

"...Need to go to bed?"

A grouchy _huff_. "I'm boring you."

Blake tries not to jostle him as he laughs, hard. Bane was adorable drunk. He was definitely going to have to savor this. "No, no, you're not. Seriously, stop looking at me like that. You're fine. You just look tired."

"I'm often tired." Bane admits, with drunken honesty. Blake sobers quickly.

Bane always seemed older to him. Even beyond the wisdom and hard experience. Blake wonders if this is the feeling one gets when they meet someone who's never gotten the chance to slow down for a second and stop aging. He had a bumpy childhood, himself, but he'd eventually been able to move on and make the most of his twenties. Blake corrects himself with a soft snort. No, he didn't. He just tried to fake it until he made it and the mask stuck, throughout college and his odd jobs and his eventual, fateful application to the Department.

At least he still had _some_ youth left. It's hard not to think of Reilly and how his durability, what _little_ he had remaining, was completely snipped away from the stress of his life. Bane had dealt with enough stress to last multiple lifetimes. Hell, it was a natural wonder he was here at _all_. Blake shakes himself from these painful thoughts with some effort, hyperfocusing on the rhythmic thrum of Bane's peculiar voice as he continues.

"...When Ra's found Bruce and mentored him...such a _fitting_ replacement for me...it was like losing a few steps on my ladder." His voice scratches, getting that angry _rasp_ when he's one hot second away from rage, but it leaves as quick as it came. "Ra's al Ghul...I had always loved him...and I had always wanted to kill him." He turns from his stomach to better look up at him, pupils large enough to stretch the dark gray to an afterthought. "Have you ever felt such a way...?"

"No..." Blake answers, not bothering to hide the troubled hitch in his voice. Bane either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

"Pray you never do. What he did to Lael...Ra's had taken her heart and left her to _rot_ , John. His ignorance never swayed me. Even his profound misery over the years at her loss left me untouched. Not with his...his leadership, his constant _rejection_ of what I could do. For a while all I truly wanted was to torture him, get my revenge for dooming her and Talia to the pit, make him _linger_ and find some closure for her ghosts." Bane shifts a little. "I spent many a day talking myself out of strangling him in his sleep. Lael wouldn't have wanted me to. I suppose the closure was more for me..."

Blake swallows back the dryness in his throat. He wonders if Ra's ever knew. From what he's heard of the man was frighteningly intelligent -- it might have been one of many reasons he kicked Bane out of the League Of Shadows. He'd also been a formidable fighter, so maybe not.

"Bruce took Ra's from me. He took my revenge from me. So I would take his city from him." Bane nuzzles against Blake's stomach again. "Then I fell in love."

"With...?" Blake doesn't want to ask ' _me_ ', because his heart flutters just a little _too_ much, still, at the mention of the word. It's good, but it's new, and he's not sure his brain or his heart can keep up to speed.

"You..." Bane nods, as if it's plain as day. "...and with Gotham."

"Wait, I have competition?" Blake's mouth spreads in a slow grin _anyway_ , heart pitter-pattering. "Thought I was your main squeeze."

Bane's brow dips again. "I am _not_ an objectophile."

Blake winces and thinks it's probably best if he keeps his mouth shut. It seems the man got a little... _literal_ while under the influence.

"There's something about this city." He admits again. "Even I can't explain it."

"Mm. Gotham poetry..." Bane heaves a sigh, a hot gust against his shirt. "That love...didn't settle well with Talia."

No. It really didn't. She hated Gotham and made sure to tell him just _how_ much before getting him thrown into the ocean with nobody any the wiser.

"It only takes a little poison. I had wanted to liberate the wretched...for a long time...but obsession wormed its way steady...through me...a long, _long_ time." Bane's eyes wander, face still turned against his shirt but looking elsewhere. He shifts again, but not to make himself more comfortable -- he can feel guilt radiating off the man like the heat from his body. "I had almost been what Talia wanted, you know. Once I...had fantasized about laying Gotham to rubble. My violent little fantasy of fire and wrath, fed healthy from my shadowed existence and my loathing of Bruce and all he represented. I shared this with her, many years ago. I _shared_ it with her, hardly more than a weak moment, but I never could have foreseen the way she would latch onto it..."

Blake remembers how _horrified_ Bane had looked at the city hall, when he'd brought his recording of Talia's psychotic plan and thought he had figured it all out. It had floored him then and he's feeling something similar now. The man may be drunk, but that's no reason not to choose his next words carefully.

"...But you _didn't_." Bane had only continued to prove himself the entire time he's known him. He was going to make sure he didn't forget. "You _didn't_ blow Gotham up. You told me not to blame myself for everything, so I'm going to throw that right back in your face. She made her choice, just like _you_ did, and sometimes there's nothing you can do about it."

"I _could_ have...I had done much more complicated things, John, this was something I should have kept to myself away from an impressionable child."

"We _all_ think ugly thoughts. I won't pretend like I never wanted to lash out at all and sundry. Besides, you never really interacted with kids beyond her. With people in general, by your own admission. How the hell were you supposed to know?"

"That's exactly it, I knew...I always _knew_ , I ran from the truth like a filthy coward-"

" _Bane_." He gives him a little shake, just enough to jostle him to attention, and the man looks up at him with round eyes. "Stop." He lowers his voice. "I'm not letting you beat yourself up. I really don't know who'd win in a fight between you and you, but it'd be a mess, huh?"

The joke sinks in this time. Bane almost smiles.

"So angry." He says, reaching up to rub his chin and missing. Blake catches his hand and kisses his fingers.

"Not right now."

They're both quiet for a few moments. Then his hand sinks in his grip, weary, and Blake feels his heart sink with it.

"I miss her, John...I miss her so _much_...I'd known...I had...I had lied to myself for so long...that it simply couldn't be..." His words are jumbling together, slurred and tired and unfocused. For a moment Blake wonders if he's going to cry again. There's a heavy pain in his voice, the kind that suggests a hot knot ready to unravel, but his eyes just glisten and waver. "...my little girl."

Blake's mouth twists sadly. He never forgot what Bane told him. Bane had _literally_ been crafted from cruelty and isolation, a giant hole deep within the earth forgotten by most of humanity, and he came out with a passion for what's right, when everything should've had him viewing the world as little more than another thing to escape. Blake had always been disgusted by how easily people used a hard past to shrug away someone's potential -- if anything, it was those that struggled the _most_ that had the most empathy.

...and yet, there was an exception to every rule. Talia hadn't made it out of the pit without a permanent dent in her psyche.

His heart goes cold at how easily he could have turned out like _her_. Who could he have been without Reilly? Then again, Talia had Bane. She _always_ had Bane. Yet here they were. Nature and nuture is a topic he's had no choice but to confront over and over in his life, his line of work, even now, but it doesn't make sense. He was going to ask Barsad for a little extra vodka before the night was over.

"We must all hold fast...a while longer." His words are barely more than a tired breath now. "Nothing lasts forever."

He doesn't like the way he says that last part. If he's being honest with himself, he hasn't liked the way he's said _anything_ tonight, honesty be damned. Blake ruminates on the uneasiness in his gut and gives Bane's shoulder a squeeze.

"What part of forever is appealing, anyway? Overrated, if you ask me." Blake frowns when he doesn't respond. "Hey. _Hey_ , before you pass out tell me how to take your mask off. In case you throw up."

Too late. Bane's out like a light. Blake stares at what he can see of his face, the most peaceful he thinks he's ever seen it, and sighs softly to himself.

\--

Selina had later asked him if he wanted to use the clean slate. Blake thought she was joking right up until the point she told him she'd revoke her offer if he didn't say something already. Considering she was two inches away from attempting to slug Bane in the face, he wasn't about to call her bluff.

It was easy for _her_ to suggest. She wanted a brand-new life, a guaranteed way to break free from years and years of crime she'd been strongarmed into without looking back. While she didn't put it _quite_ that way (or tell him at _all_ , actually), Blake was a detective. Badge or no. Now that he thought about it, maybe she barely tolerated him because of how easily he read her.

The offer is tempting, considering he was hiding out with a murder charge on his head and a dozen _other_ things that would make even the stoniest judge squirm in their chair. Being completely wiped off the face of the earth was a _great_ idea. The problem was the whole 'being recognized' thing. He would almost certainly have to fake his death if he were to stay in Gotham and that's _not_ another trauma he wants to put his boys through. They've handled seeing mutated alligator men and the League Of Shadows pretty well, but that didn't mean he was going to take a gamble on their mental health.

Blake was going to have more than enough time to think about making that increasingly mythical return trip back to Gotham. The boys were leaving tomorrow. He turns instead to his obligations for the day, all the preparation that needs to be done, but the hangover slapping him upside the head isn't making it easy to care. If he's feeling this shitty, Bane was no doubt in a worse mood. He drank enough alcohol to make a _bartender_ sweat under the collar.

As if summoned the door opens and a flood of cold seeps in. Blake hunches into himself, glaring (or squinting, really) at the towering shadow approaching the bedside. He immediately regrets it when a light hits his eyes full-on.

"Ugh, no...no light...." He croaks. "Please."

"Adopting the dark so soon?" Bane rumbles, sounding pleased, almost _relaxed_ , and Blake can't figure out if he wants to be relieved or irritated. He rubs his eyes and presses palms against his face as he comes to grips with his morning. His body is loose, muscles as soupy as a bowl of oatmeal, but his _head_. "You are an hour overdue. Up with you."

"Glad to see _one_ of us got along with the vodka." He gripes, hating the flurry of sparks that dance behind his eyelids every time he blinks.

"Barbara has thrown up twice, according to Salim." The masked man murmurs, voice pleasantly low. He wasn't all that loud a speaker to begin with, but Blake gets the feeling he's trying not to make his head pound more.

"Fantastic. That doesn't explain how the hell we're fucked and you're _not_." He mutters through his fingers, letting the light filter in little-by-little. "I think I have Tylenol in my bag, can you just..."

"Save it. Drink this." Something hot is set by the bed. Hot and really _strong_. His stomach flips in complaint at the small and he shakes his head mutely. "This brew is how I am not hungover and you _are_." Bane adds dryly.

Blake huddles deeper under the blanket and the man reaches down to rub his shoulder. "That smells like warmed over _death_ , Bane."

"Well, it won't be going anywhere." He pulls away. There's a _creak_ as Bane sits on the sole chair in the room. "I will remain here for most of the morning."

"Why's that? Don't you have...things..." He can barely finish his thoughts. The only thought he _can_ come to grips with is that Bane was a major morning person and that never changed the entire time he knew him. "...stuff to finish up...?"

"Today was the day I left the pit." _That_ makes him suddenly snap into wakefulness. Blake peers out of the blanket. "I reserve some time for myself."

"Wait...kind of like your birthday?" He hedges.

Bane tilts his head down at him. "Yes. I _had_ considered instead the day I donned the mask and settled into my persona. But this one always felt more...apt." He's wearing a short-sleeved black shirt and his usual fatigues. Blake squints. Not fatigues. Jeans. An actual pair of (admittedly, worn and faded) jeans tucked into black combat boots. If the man weren't always so solidly militaristic he would fit right into Gotham's thriving biker scene.

"Do you usually spend your birthday with...gross tea and work?"

"Obviously." His eyes crinkle at the corners. "This is strange to you."

"Obviously." He responds, attempting to mimic his accent and completely failing, if Bane's one cocked eyebrow is anything to go by. "Actually, it's just kind of funny..." He feels a small thrill bubbling through him at this new ground between them. It almost makes him forget his hangover. "...my birthday is in a few days."

"Oh?" Something flickers in Bane's eyes. He stands suddenly, as if he's forgotten something, and crosses the room to go dig around in one of its many rounded corners. When he returns he hands him that scarf he's been working on for the past few days. It's a deep blue, thick and wooly, and is probably long enough to still brush his waist after a go-around.

"The weather is getting warmer, but perhaps it can stave off the night's chill." He offers. Blake blinks down at it as he finally sits up out of the blankets, both surprised and confused.

"It's your birthday, but you give _me_ a gift?"

"Social niceties." He huffs, instantly scornful, and promptly starts wrapping it around his neck. Blake tilts his chin up to give him better access -- judging by the way he tilts his head he's silently figuring something out as he does. "...Hm. Still too long."

"I like it, actually. It's gorgeous..." Blake is nothing but thumbs when it comes to art, but it didn't mean he couldn't appreciate good craftsmanship when he saw it. Not a stitch looks out of place. "Gotham's always cold as shit, anyway. The more, the better."

"Yet if you get into a fight you could be compromised." Bane responds with his usual practicality. Blake decides to give him one better.

"Come on. You wear your weakness right on your face."

It was meant to be a light jibe, but Bane's eyes immediately turn flinty and he pulls away. Blake's still feeling two steps behind himself, so he has to put all his effort in reaching out and taking his arm to get him to stay put. He ends up clumsily grabbing his leg, which Bane looks down at irritably.

"Hey. I'm sorry. That was a stupid thing to say." He says, with feeling. "Thanks for the gift."

"...Get some rest." He responds with a mild sigh. "You look _and_ sound like warmed over death."

Blake tries some of the tea (and barely keeps it down), but it does make his headache go down enough to catch a few extra winks. The man does eventually leave, not able to take many true days off, and doesn't return until late that night, but that just meant the St. Swithin's boys had all the time in the world to get ready. He runs it by Barsad first, who tells him he thinks it's a great idea and absolutely _not_ because he's never seen anything of the sort before.

Bane is visibly startled when the boys all greet him in the main room and shout, " _Happy birthday!_ "

The mercenaries that trailed him back inside the mountain watch in speechless astonishment as they sing the entire birthday song from beginning to end, though the lyrics are certainly more...colorful. Blake is _pretty_  sure the part about Bane's 'murder shepherd jacket' came from Tiya. The boys then apologize to Bane for not having much to give him, but it's clearly the furthest thing from the man's mind. He turns down the apology, politely, and compliments them on their 'lovely voices'. Then he leans to the side and whispers in his ear:

"...What do I _do?_ "

Blake has to swallow back a laugh at the utter _sincerity_ on his face. The poor man looks less shocked and more bewildered, honestly, eyes flicking back and forth between the boys like he's missed something extremely important and has a time limit to figure it out. Blake would much rather he try too hard than not hard enough, but as was his wont, there was _always_ a third option.

"Come on, you don't have to _do_ anything. They just want you to feel included." He soothes with a squeeze of his hand. "Except you have to play Pin The Tail On The Donkey. That's an unbreakable rule."

"Yes, yes. Your Gotham tradition every Thursday of every month." Bane repeats Blake's playful lie with some of his own sarcasm, though some of that uneasiness is still obvious in the quick dart of his eyes. "Except we are short a mule."

"Oh, I'm sure we'll manage."

It's less 'Pin The Tail On The Donkey' and more 'Pin The Whatever On The Rough Sketch Of What Tiya Thinks A Donkey Looks Like'. Joel does a pretty good job and sticks Anarosa's bobby pin right into the upper thigh, getting the highest amount of points and leading Blake to wondering if he's been getting practice by wandering the tunnels when everyone wasn't looking. Bane's speech about darkness and fear must have really affected him.

"Where'd you get that?" Amir whispers to him once his turn is up -- he hadn't gotten anywhere close to the donkey's (hippo's?) rump, but he doesn't seem to care. "It's pretty."

"Bane made it for me." Blake responds with a grin, holding up one end to let him feel with his good hand. The boy's eyes light up and he looks at the man with that expression kids get when their personal idol levels up.

The kid later presents Bane a group drawing of him and the League as their sole gift, signed by all the boys (with an added signature for Trevor) on the back. Amir shyly tells him he'd understand if he didn't want to keep it with his 'on-the-go lifestyle', to which Bane responds by giving the boy's hair a ruffle. Blake wonders if he picked that up from him -- he's only seen him pat Joel on the head, once, in a very formal display of affection.

"It would make a fond page in my journal." He tells him warmly. "I may have to fold it to make it fit, though."

"That's okay. It just might get a little smudged." Amir assures. "I was thinking about what you showed me in the sick bay, actually. If you turn it upside down...kinda like this...it looks like a mountain."

"Yes..." They both tilt their heads together in a mirror image. "...yes, indeed it does."

A long day is ahead of the boys tomorrow and they have to cut the night short. A few beg to stay up a little later (Tiya and Jay attempting their usual tag team of whining and joking, respectively), which Bane responds to with a stern narrowing of his eyes that has them dropping the act instantly. Blake feels a domestic thrill shiver through him at the sight, which _should_ feel completely ridiculous but just doesn't. He was, through and through, a father.

Once they're all asleep Bane pulls him aside and asks if he'd like to join him -- there's a natural spring deep inside the mountain and he promises it'll be a better cure for his hangover than the death tea he made him drink. Again it reminds Blake of the Batcave, though he knows better than to mention it -- while he trusts Bane to keep his word about not losing his temper (or at least put in a better effort), he's eager to keep Bruce and Alfred out of his head. He imagines the masked man would feel the same.

"I was starting to think lockdown would last forever." He mutters as they leave the last tunnel, letting his thoughts roll out of him at will now that they're alone. "The boys are having a blast here, but they're pretty glad to go back home. Only reason they don't talk about it more is so they don't offend you."

Something about Bane's silence feels a little odd, but he can't put his finger on it.

"Oh, none taken."

His eyes adjust to the dark as best they can, but he can hear more than see the water a few feet in front of him -- a light _drip-drip_ from somewhere beyond, a ripple that reverberates softly around him. The cave walls stretch wide and tall, deep pockets of shadow, and he's uncomfortably reminded of the storm drains, even though it really couldn't be more different. Blake isn't entirely sure how freezing water is going to help his hangover. He thumps into Bane's outstretched arm -- the man apparently kept him from walking straight into the open pool.

"There are minerals in the water. I use it for therapy." He says, shrugging off his shirt and folding it delicately on the ground. "Perhaps you will find it useful. Perhaps not."

"You're not going to make fun of my swimming skills, are you?" Blake sighs. Instead of another jibe he gets a husky laugh that travels the length of the cave.

"Not tonight." Blake's stomach sinks in disappointment as Bane moves deeper into the shadows.

"Got a light?" He asks. A snort is his response. Blake snorts back. "Oh, don't start waxing philosophy. I just want to see you."

"Not yet." Bane responds from somewhere in the black. "Follow my voice."

Blake sighs again and starts to move through the dark, encouraging his body to move on instinct instead of active thought. It's not _as_ difficult when he lets his senses take over, yet even then he can't stop his skin from tightening with dread. Like he's somewhere he shouldn't be. The stone beneath his feet is slippery, not slimy, and the air is completely still. The only scent his nose can catch is earthy.

"Fuck, this is cold." He chatters. "I thought you...hated the cold..."

He can't make out what Bane's saying...

...but he _can_ feel the body of the alligator man in the cold black, bobbing lifelessly after he'd sent electricity through the sewer depths. Blake's breath starts to come in short bursts, his body feeling less like it belongs to him and more like a lifeless rag. His arms won't obey him. His legs can barely hold him up. Panic grips him and he's convinced he's going to sink and _join_ them-

"...it's not real..." Bane's voice reaches out to him. He has no idea how the man knows he's panicking, but he's _grateful_. "Follow my voice, John. I'm here."

Blake starts to make his way through, shaking violently -- the spring is cold, but not _freezing_ , and he's now sure most of the chill is coming from inside him. He reaches out and feels himself begin to waver when his feet no longer brush the ground. Any minute he expects to be pulled under, drowned or eaten alive, and _fuck_ he can't think of which would be worse. He opens his mouth to tell him he can't _do_ this, he needs to get out...only to suddenly sink into Bane's broad chest.

He shoves himself close and huffs out a shaky sigh. The warmth is shocking against his chilled skin and it brings him solidly back to reality.

"Shit." He breathes. He grips his shoulders, tightly, and grinds his face into his chest. "Another one..."

"...I'm here." Bane repeats against his hair before reaching over him and flicking something on. His eyes narrow in rejection, but he cranks it up nonetheless, not stopping until the cavern is filled with warm orange and the spread of stone stretches out around them. Blake's heart speeds up fondly and, once he's sure he can move again, he slowly pivots in place (without fully letting go) to get a better look at his surroundings.

Unlike the Batcave the surroundings are organic and crude, jagged angles and sweeping curls of rock as far as his eye can see. It's a majestic sight, but it doesn't take long for his gaze to stop on the masked man stretching beside him. He's completely nude now, not even wearing his back brace, and the water stops just below the swell of his ass. Bane's eyebrows raise a little, noting his shameless staring, and he leans back against the edge of the pool, a few droplets easing their way down his broad chest.

"...Are you all right?"

"I am now."

" _Hm._ "

Bane smiles appreciatively and extends a hand out to him to help him navigate the deeper part of the water as they swim, as gently as he would lead a kid down the sidewalk. When he's sure Blake's steady enough to manage on his own he sinks into the darker end of the pool and drifts off.

"Is this all natural?" Blake asks when he resurfaces. Like nearly everything else he did the man approaches the water with complete and utter confidence, moving like a fish without a hitch in his movement.

"Most, yes. Some of these caverns were man-made many decades ago, according to a few recordings on outer Gotham expeditions. The League and I made adjustments months before we stationed ourselves in the storm drains. Additional rooms for storage, the occasional stairway to help movement, the like."

"Always planning ahead. ...Never knew you were such a graceful swimmer. I mean, I know we both fell out of a building into the ocean together, but I still don't remember much of that." He adds, stretching out his bad leg with care from where he hugs the side of the pool -- his hip doesn't hurt as much anymore, definitely not with the water doing a great job of numbing the leftover stiffness, but he didn't feel confident swimming with it yet. "Got plenty of practice in the sewers, I'm guessing?"

"No, not when I had my attention so _consistently_ turned elsewhere." Bane drawls, wiping water from his eyes. "You say graceful like I would instead flounder about."

"Well, you're really big. And bulky." He grins -- that simple motion already makes him feel a little better. "Like a bear."

Bane's expression is nothing less than sardonic. "Bears are good swimmers."

Blake blinks. "Oh, are they?" Bane pointedly looks away. Blake flicks water at him. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm a city slicker."

Bane blinks away the droplets and gives him an expression so _stern_ it could probably frost over the pool. So he repeats the gesture, flicking water to hit his chest with more enthusiasm. When Bane just stares at him and doesn't react he decides he needs to up his game. One fierce splash is all it takes. He immediately tries to breaststroke away (at least, what he _thinks_ is a breaststroke) and Bane has already curled one thick arm around his legs to yank him over.

"Okay, okay, you win!" Blake cries, trying to take advantage of his slippery grip to wriggle away and getting nowhere. "I give up!"

"I haven't _done_ anything yet." Bane responds, humor trembling in his chest as he lifts him halfway out of the water.

"Yeah, no shit. I don't want to wait and find out." He insists. "You can put me down now." He's not quite surprised by Bane's astounding strength anymore, but it's still impressive how easily he can lift him and set him back down like a box of tools. Blake puts a little distance between them in case he changes his mind, floating carefully in the pool and letting it turn his hangover into a numb memory. The water reflects off Bane's back in jittery shimmers, flickering over the scar that travels down his spine in a long knot of bumpy flesh. He'd never asked where he got it, but it wasn't for lack of wondering. All he knew was that the memory must be as painful as the mark it left. Or, rather, it keeps leaving. Bane must notice Blake's attention turning again, because after following his gaze he folds his arms over the edge of the stone pool and begins with the tone of someone sharing something personal.

"...Candles and lantern oil were allowed in limited supply. The other prisoners pooled their resources together to torture me once Talia escaped. Fascinating how they learned the value of teamwork only from the desire to mete out petty revenge for their shortcomings."

"Hey, wait. You don't have to...if it hurts." God, he still feels like a selfish prick asking Bane to share about Lael, who he'd _told_ him many months back was his very first friend. Hell, he had a panic attack not fifteen _minutes_ ago and was in no spot to ask someone to relive trauma. Bane moves a careless shoulder.

"Not so much anymore." He assures. Blake frowns, but he drifts down until the water is ghosting along his chin, his body adapted enough to make the air a much colder choice, and listens. "It had been after I helped Talia make the climb. I had known there would be retaliation, steeled myself for it, but to _this_ degree..." Bane idly scratches where the knot meets his neck. "Once they grew bored of beating me they pursued more creative ways of mourning their lost dreams, such as dripping hot wax along my spine."

His stomach churns sharply. He'd always known his injury was too... _severe_ for a knife, but he never would have guessed that in a thousand years. It was almost _Crane_ levels of cruelty. He instinctively flinches at the thought of him -- expecting the doctor's whisper just outside of his peripheries -- but nothing comes. With a small note of hope (as rusty as a broken bike chain) he wonders if the toxin's effect is finally starting to wear off.

"You told Amir it took you months to recover...?" He says after no unwanted voices sift through the quiet cave. "And even more to learn how to move again?"

"Nearly two years. Yet more to learn the difference between night terrors and reality."

"I see why you hate sitting around." Blake murmurs, shaken. "I'm...amazed you survived that."

"Don't be." He seems to ruminate over this. "...I have only barely managed to survive myself."

Blake tilts his head in confusion...then goes cold. Bane's poetic speech patterns could lose him sometimes, but he understands exactly what he's talking about. He'd mentioned depression (or, rather, 'despair') all the way back in the woods. While Blake had always known the man was no stranger to pain, it was the first time he'd been so _open_ about it. He'd been too tired and angry that day to ask him to elaborate. He doesn't want to regret this later.

"It's okay to be weak."

"A part of me knows that. The other part..."

"Your brain and your gut, I know. Mine argue all the time." Bane's shoulders are stiff, from what could be pain or irritation at himself, and his head is bowed low now. Blake takes that as a cue to move across the water, using primarily his arms and keeping his legs loose, to drift around and bump gently against his other side. The masked man peers down at him and he can see it, as plain as the silvery streaks glittering above them.

"So, you've..." Blake starts, only to trail off. He's still hesitant to pry that deeply. Not when all _he_ had to do was look over his shoulder and see the handful of times over the years he'd considered making his life less hard for good. It's a sensitive subject and he doesn't want to bring up any more bad memories. Bane is sharp as a tack. He saves him the trouble.

"Yes." His voice is so low it doesn't even echo. "You?"

"...Yeah." Blake looks down at his reflection, dark and jittery. "Once. A month after my grandmother died."

"I had attempted...once...while I was in the pit, when the pain had become unbearable. I had felt the urge again when Talia had been kidnapped and presumed dead." He reaches out a hand to cover his, a remorseful thumb brushing along his knuckles. "I'm sorry." The softness in Bane's voice shouldn't be startling. All that the man has gone through, the demons he battles even when he snaps on his mask and moves through Gotham like a vengeful ghost, he's made it clear he can _still_ can pull out a tenderness the likes of which he's never seen before. It would be startling to hear from anybody. Like finding a clump of baby bird down in a nest of thistles. It fucks Blake up, frankly.

"I'll be here when you need me." He nudges his shoulder with his own, his skin immediately prickling at the contact. "...Okay? None of this you have to do alone."

Bane looks down at him out of the corner of his eye. As quiet as a shadow.

"Me. The boys. Barsad and Harleen and Barbara..." He purses his lips. "...for the _most_ part. Family makes all the difference. You have us, even if it's just to sit around and shoot the shit over beer."

"...and Trevor?"

"She's a surprisingly good motivational speaker. She could give you a few pointers."

Blake tries to hold onto a serious look for as long as he can. Bane stares him down, completely unblinking and as bland as a bare table, and that expression gives him absolutely _no_ warning to prepare for the man's arm sweeping forward and splashing him right in the face. He sputters and tries to fight back with a splash of his own, but he really should know better, because he's already moved around him like a damn fish to dunk him. For a few minutes they play-fight like a couple of boys, with Blake trying to get the upperhand by seeing if Bane's ticklish. He's not.

"Numbing agent, remember?" He teases once both of Blake's arms are folded firmly at the small of his back. The man's voice has become warmer, lighting him up like a second lantern in the cave, and he has his chest against his shoulderblades, chin hooked over one shoulder to nuzzle the front of his mask against his ear.

"Then you won't feel this, I guess..." Blake responds, twisting a little in his grip to angle his head and kiss his jaw.

Judging by the way Bane's heart starts drumming against his back, he felt enough.

There was no need to detail to him that an entire life waited for him outside of Talia. It was _obvious_ , wasn't it? The League Of Shadows was an ideology more than it was a group and he'd made it a point himself to inspire change wherever he went. He still wasn't sure if he could pull away from Gotham. His home, despite all his homes, but he would still be here. He had so many people who cared. Hell, people he'd never even met before, like a little family on one of Gotham's islands.

He had _him_.

That's what he thought. Maybe he should have said more about all the steps they could take together once this chapter of their life folded to a close. The trips they could take outside of Gotham, with Blake having never traveled outside of the closest Metropolis border. There was still a lot he didn't know about the man. A lot he didn't know how to handle. He was a detective, but the only title he could completely lay claim to being was human. An fallible, flawed, stubborn human.

He won't reach a conclusion until weeks later, when he's remembering the bite of cold water around his waist and the way the flickering lantern doesn't cover up the tender ache in Bane's eyes.

\--

Morning comes way too soon and not nearly soon enough. Just when he was getting used to one routine he had to swap it out for another.

The mercenaries seem both relieved _and_ disappointed to see the boys leaving -- the majority of them (save for a few running chores) actually congregate in the main hall to see them off properly. Khalil makes sure they eat a hearty breakfast and Salim keeps Joel and Trevor busy alongside Barbara, complete with a new knot of rope for the dog to play with on the journey back (once she woke up from being temporarily knocked out, anyway). Selina and Harleen have already made it down to the mountain base. Barbara has decided to stick with the kids -- she keeps reading off her speech of white lies for when she returns.

"Didn't you ace Communications?" He teases as she goes over the line about how 'terrible she felt housing twenty-seven kids in a tiny house with barely any heat'.

"You can _never_ be too prepared." She responds with a sniff.

He's wearing a borrowed League jacket (" _Just keep it_." Barsad tells him. " _Goodness knows you could use a few extra_.") and Bane's scarf. Warmer weather was here, but mornings were always going to feel like Hell frozen over. They have an hour, perhaps two, though Barsad assures him he won't skimp on punctuality now.

He'd have to tell them about Reilly soon. He didn't mean to put it off, but whenever he tries forming the words they get stuck halfway in his throat and refuse to budge.

"You're an asshole, you know that?" Finn tells him after they finish double-checking the rooms for anything they might've left. The semi-circle of boys goes quiet around him. .

"I won't say I'm sorry 'til I know what it is." Blake responds with a lowering of his head. "Though I can harbor a few guesses." The young man's tone is harsh, but his eyes are glinting with emotion. He fidgets with his hands for a quiet moment, then says:

"...Bane's your boyfriend and I can't even _tell_ anyone."

Blake barks out a wet laugh and pulls the young man into a fierce hug. Finn returns it, shaking his head and muttering something about losing track of all these secrets. They hold for almost a minute, the other boys lingering a few feet away and watching with varying degrees of composure -- Jay is sniffling and looking at his hands, Tiya rubbing his shoulder and not looking much better himself.

"I'll stay in touch. Whatever way I can, even if it's just leaving sticky notes under the front mat." Blake assures them in turn, giving them each a brief and tight squeeze. Trevor dances around them, restless as ever, with a sleepy Joel's arms snug around her neck. "You'll have to change your number, probably, but that's nothing a phonebook can't tell me."

His throat tightens up at the thought of managing the building's calls anymore. The boys start up a hubbub about all the homework they're going to have to make up when they get back. Emanuel is positive their teachers will get rid of the end-of-year projects in light of the toxin outbreaks. Jamal disagrees with him and they immediately start a debate. A hand rests gently on his shoulder -- Amir is looking up at him resolutely.

"We'll tell Reilly why you can't stop by." He says. "You don't have to feel bad about not showing up."

"...On the contrary." Bane interjects. His arms are folded behind his back, dressed to impress in his sheepskin coat and vest and fatigues. Despite his soft voice the clamor immediately dies down. The boys all shift around as one, with Blake the last to peer at him over his shoulder. "That won't be necessary."

"...What?"

Bane beckons him over, then turns and walks out of the room and deep into the hall anyway. The boys cast him worried looks and he gives them a mollifying gesture, though his gut is clenching with apprehension. He makes sure they're both _well_ out of earshot of the boys before letting the man elaborate.

"I will find Bruce and Talia alone." Bane holds his gaze in the poor tunnel light seeping in from the exit. "You need to return to Gotham and say farewell with your boys."

Blake's stunned into silence for what feels like a full minute. Then...

"Sorry, what? Did you just forget I _can't?_ " He snaps, barely remembering to keep his voice down. "If I show up they'll put me in cuffs. If I could just _see_ him I would have already packed my bags and pissed off."

"This is no mere snap decision. The past few days I considered all the ways we could move you in and out of the city undetected." He speaks quickly before Blake can interrupt. "We can smuggle you into the hospital. Lockdown's recent end is convenient, for the high volume of activity that will no doubt follow, but it will _still_ be precarious. You understand that if the wrong eyes spot you Gotham could lock up all over again."

"Wait, wait, just _stop_. You're going alone after what happened last time? I thought getting stabbed in the back would-" He halts when it clicks. "Wait...you _planned_ this? You waited until my boys were about to leave before bringing it _up?_ "

So _that's_ why he seemed a little funny last night. He doesn't bother keeping his voice down now.

"Seriously, what the hell, Bane? That's completely _low_." He seethes. "You normally give a shit about what I have to say, except when you suddenly _don't_ -"

"This is _my_ mistake!" Bane hisses, impatient. "Had I given _you_ time to consider you would have no doubt thrown yourself in harm's way, again, and considered it your wisest investment." Blake opens his mouth to argue and promptly snaps it shut when Bane takes him by the shoulders and gives him a firm shake. "No. Enough of this. You will _go_. I've seen what loss has done to you. Your mother, your father, your grandmother. You need closure, John."

"No, what I _need_ is to make sure nothing happens to you again!" He stresses, trying to push him off, but his voice cracks. "I can't do anything for him now, I've made my peace with that-"

"No, I do _not_ believe that. Not for a second. He doesn't have much time left and the more time you spend arguing the less time you _have_ to say your goodbyes." It rips him up how thoughtful Bane is being, omitting Reilly's name in case the boys hear, even when he's being a complete, manipulative _bastard_. "Barsad has kept me consistently updated-"

"Yeah? What about you?" He growls, eyes narrowed, vicious and helpless in equal measures. "What about _your_ goodbyes, huh? I'm not great at moving on, but neither are _you_." He must be completely, _horribly_ right because Bane leans back, lets his hands slide free from his shoulders and just...stares at him. Expression completely inscrutable no matter how hard he tries to figure out what he's thinking. Blake can't hold onto the anger now. He pushes hands on his chest, to shove him or hold onto him, even he doesn't know. It's exactly what he expected. _God_ , sometimes he wishes his gut would fail him. "I told you, I don't want you facing all that _alone_. Not after what you've been through. Shit, for the longest time you wanted me to _join_ the League and here you are, trying to drive me away all over again." Blake knows he's going for the low blow again. The man's eyes widen in anger.

"Driving you _away?_ This has _nothing_ to do with that, John, stop being childish." Bane's voice grates with frustration. "I have done the best I can to find a solution for all of us. What would you have me _do?_ "

"Hell, I don't know, it just feels like I'll never _see_ you again!"

Bane's expression cracks now. He reaches out to him. Blake doesn't want to edge away but he can feel himself turning to ice. The man ignores his stiff posture and urges him close, until their foreheads are touching, until he can't look anywhere but his solemn eyes. Gazing at him like he did when he was drunk senseless in his lap, completely open and strangely resolute, like he's about to walk headfirst into a storm. Like usual, like he hope he'll always be, Bane is too much for him.

"Don't." Bane murmurs. "Don't regret this, too."

"The _hell_." Blake rasps, shifting in his grasp, making Bane instinctively move to grab him and still him, but no, he's bulling up against his chest and pushing his face against his collar. "What if you're wrong? What if you get fucked again and there's no one around to help?"

"I won't be alone, not truly. Back-up will be nearby in case anything goes wrong." Bane assures. Blake's not convinced. He presses his nose to the dip of his throat, the only place he can think to air out all his hopes and fears.

"You're still recovering from a stab wound." He tries. "You put on a good show, but..."

"I have been through much worse." Bane responds smoothly.

"Bruce is one of the few people that's beat you in a fight. Twice." He stresses.

"I know." Is his rumbling, _absurdly_ basic response.

"Talia escaped you _twice_."

"Then I suppose I'll see if the third time really is the charm."

"Ha." His laugh feels boneless. His voice becomes small. "...You were really fucked up last night. I was scared you'd...do something extreme." Bane doesn't say anything. He does start petting his hair, though. A slow stroke that should probably soothe him but instead makes him want to scream as loud as possible. "...You better come back soon, then."

"I don't make promises I can't keep." The masked man corrects, one hand gripping his back and the other cupping the back of his head to hold him tighter. "But I will _try_."

"I love you. You know that, right?" Blake mutters, sinking fingers into his jacket's soft coating. "I love you, you thoughtful bastard."

"I love you, too." Bane responds into his hair. "You self-righteous martyr."

Bane lets himself be tugged deeper into the winding tunnels, allows Blake to push him against the wall and press frantically at his jawline, as fresh and impulsive as they were when they touched each other for the first time on St. Swithin's third floor. They use touch to mete out all their frustrated leftover words since there isn't _nearly_ enough time to fuck, not the way he _wants_ to, though it doesn't stop his hands from wandering all over him and committing every single inch to memory. He urges Bane to do the same, pushing his hands down his sides and back -- it's ridiculous, he knows, but he hopes it will give him more incentive to hurry on back home to him.

Bane bites hard, grips him harder, and Blake returns the sentiment viciously, both of them knowing the bruises will have to keep them company when they reunite. When they're tempted to slow down and linger, breathing each other's air like nothing else comes close, they speed up immediately, aware of the ticking clock hanging over both of their heads and rebelling anyway.

"...it isn't that I never wanted to show you, a lack of trust on my part or anything like that..." Bane pants in his mouth, barely pulling back enough to form the words.

"No." Blake hisses, fiercely, and punctuates the word with a bite to his lower lip. "No, show me when you get _back_."

"Isn't that my choice?" Bane chuckles, the sound becoming strained when Blake pulls back to retort, leaning forward to catch the corner of his mouth between his teeth and tug him back.

"Yeah, you forfeit _that_ today." He tilts his head and lets Bane lick inside his mouth. "I'm still going to lord what you did over your head."

"Yes, well..." His scars stretch against his lips as he smiles. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't."

The storm left sometime in the night, leaving it bright and almost painfully sunny when they pile into the vans. Bane steals away an extra moment to fix up his scarf right before they depart. Blake tries not to move it much the entire trip back to Gotham -- things are calmer than they've been in a while, but he's never been in more need of an anchor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, yeah, so I _still_ squeezed in a little bit of fluff (even after excessive trimming). What can I say, I'm full of shit. 
> 
> There's a lot I want to put in here since we're nearing end-game. Until we get there, _happy holidays everyone!_ Hopefully this chapter will give you something to do while you're bored on the bus or waiting for those scalloped potatoes to finish baking.


	64. Third Time's The Charm

It was said to be impossible to find. Bane constructed his entire image on the concept.

He finds the Batcave nestled in the heart of Gotham woodland, an unassuming crater of nature's power leading from a river and into a waterfall. It had taken a little time, to be sure. Bruce Wayne was keen on maintaining his secrets and had eight years to perfect the art of the hermit, bolstered powerfully by his wealth. It was nothing the League couldn't handle.

Bane rolls his neck once and steps into the river, the breeze picking up the chill and brushing it along his fingertips. He would eventually be found, but that was exactly what he wanted.

There are no alarms or traps. He harbors no delusions of a lack of oversight. Bane's eyes adjust quickly to the change in light as he leaves the glaring day behind a wall of water and steps into the cold shadow of the cave. It's beautiful. A sight songs themselves would crow about. Talia's favorite stories always had to do with technology. 'The future in her hands', she said, urging him to stress all he knew about a world that still felt like a story to him. Bane considers this as he strolls with ease across the artificially-smooth walkways, slowly pivoting in place as he takes in the entirety of the Batcave.

The League's secondary base in the mountains was a touch crude, yes, but functional. This facility matches aesthetic with quality. It's meticulously crafted, an artistry he can feel in his bones, and the hum of technology sings just outside of his peripheral hearing. Only the stale shadows keep him from truly loving what he's found -- he appreciated and embraced technology, he relied on it to keep him sane and healthy, after all, yet there was always a small part of him that ached for the dynamic fickleness of nature. It would be a forever curse from the pit, it seems.

His instinct is to explore and learn as much as he can. His heart guides him instead all the way to where the darkness fans out and urges him with hidden secrets.

Who could he have been with all this money? What person could he have become free from the pit or with his parents by his side? It's been a long time since he's mused over these things, not since he donned the mask, truly, and he wonders if these intrusive thoughts are heralding the next change in his life. Indeed, they seem to swirl around him with a supernatural force. Tempting him with distraction and envy, ghosts of the past attempting to claw past his vigor. He brushes them aside like the wind.

Bane has just rounded another corner, where the dark begins to melt away, when Bruce's aging butler appears before him like a whisper, and just about as tangible. He looks _exhausted_ , his thin hair but a memory, and he doesn't seem to register him at first.

"... _Bane_...?" He begins, uncertain, blinking blearily from where he stands in the fluorescent light's chill. He holds a small stack of towels under one arm and is dressed in a mild sweatervest and slacks. "My eyes are playing tricks on me again..."

"I am very real, Alfred." Bane's eyes travel cautiously from the lit-up floor to the long stretch of hall. His eyes reject the light, but he urges them to adapt quickly.

"Why are you here?" He doesn't ask how he found the Batcave -- no doubt the memory of Bane taking his fill of Bruce's 'secret' armory was still fresh.

"You need to guess?" He cuts to the chase with a question that's buzzed in his mind for weeks. "Alfred, why did you take me at my word back then? On the island?"

He blinks, startled by the change in topic. After adjusting the towels in his arms he responds, carefully. "You always...struck me as a man of ideals. Ideals I don't agree with, but you're devoted to them. ...You remind me of Bruce, sometimes." He flinches, preparing for retaliation, but all Bane feels is dull pity for the old man. He looks him up and down again, learning more and more.

"How...long have you been here, Alfred?" His clothes are pristine, but they betray a haggard build, stooped with stress and bearing a pallor better suited for someone ill, not working in one of the richest hideaways known to man. Bane can't see the wound Bruce left, but he hopes, for the old man's shaky health, it wasn't too severe.

"Too long." Alfred shifts where he stands, suddenly uncomfortable. "You need to leave."

"Not until I find Talia." Bane looks around again. Something is wrong. Bruce should have found him by now.

"She's safe. He hasn't hurt her." He assures. Bane is relieved to hear this, but it's not a concern. Alfred continues, swiftly, and turns his attention with his next words. "They...they've been acting out this fantasy together. As if they're married and sharing a life with their new child. But he keeps her here...she hasn't left since we departed. I haven't left, either." Rage boils through him, an instinctive punch of protective _fury_ that makes Alfred shrink back immediately. Bane would have immediately torn through the Batcave like a storm made man, using Alfred as the first on his list of tools to find the one responsible and separate their head from their neck.

Bane feels the same sour rage quaking him all the way down to his bones, the same that fed him in the pit and in the League, but this time he stays put. He wasn't here to be Talia's Bane. Not _anymore_. It's just as well. If he had moved an inch he would have been knocked out cold, maybe even killed, because Bruce's voice calls out to him not a moment too soon.

"You _do_ realize a secret cave isn't supposed to be treated like a tourist spot, right?"

"My apologies." Bane calls back, looking past Alfred at the silhouette past the door and up what seems to be staircase or slope. "I would have knocked, but you have no door."

"I _would_ believe that, if you didn't love showing up out of nowhere and leaving destruction in your wake so much." The silhouette moves. Aside from the dim spots stretching away from the hall and the square brightness framing Alfred there's no other light. His steps are light. He's without armor. "Was beginning to wonder when you'd drop by. You have a habit of chasing after lost causes. One of the _few_ things I can say you're better at than me."

Bane wills down the defensive bristle working up his spine. He would have claimed Gotham a contender for _that_ title, but he had long since been proven wrong. Bane calmly considers different methods of attack as Bruce finishes making his way down the invisible flight of stairs to where Alfred is still standing, pale as marble and about as stiff. The light fully reveals him -- he appears in better health, dressed simply and boasting a casual, arrogant stance. His back still troubles him, judging by the way he breathes, but not enough to show strain on his face.

"You need to let this go, Bane." He says, tone light and gaze testy. 

"You understand she loves me." Bane lifts his chin. "She would be remiss to see me hurt _or_ gone. How long did you think this could last?"

"See, that's where you're tripping up. Alfred and I have been working with her all this time. She's _completely_ warped from what she went through in the Lazarus Pit growing up. I see that now." A light sparks in his eyes. "Come to think of it... _you're_ the only connection she has to that place anymore."

Just like this man, to view years of pain and abuse as a book with a gradual end. Bane hopes his sneer is only enhanced by his mask.

"Ra's had deemed you my superior. Honor his memory and do just that." Bane lets the knife clatter to the ground. Pulls out the radio equipment to follow suit, one hard _clatter_ and soft _thud_ after another. Alfred looks to Bruce for direction, confused and shocked. John's words back at the mountain echo in Bane's mind, a pleasant whisper, and he channels their honesty. "You beat me twice already, have you not?"

"And if I refuse?"

"Then it will be a _short_ fight."

"...I have a training ground." Bruce starts, looking at his weapons with surprise and disbelief coloring his face. "Just you and me."

"Oh, I will be fine here." He could have hidden doors to seal off the cave, but he would sooner take his chances near the opening than somewhere deeper. "I would rather not take my chances with _your_ morals."

Bruce's expression becomes tight. Bane had pegged him true -- he still feels guilty. The man had stabbed him in the back... _while_ gripped by the toxin. They both know this. He still feels no shame pushing a finger into the wound. Whatever impact Crane's work left on his mind is debatable, for the moment, but the look in his eyes is clear -- his desperation to make up for what happened (Alfred staring at him helplessly and driving the point home) couldn't be more stark. Bane would have to rely on this stubborn, warped sense of honor to be his undoing. Bane sheds his coat and his armor. The cold air makes his skin ripple unhappily, but he flexes his arms and reminds himself of the natural strength that kept him alive through nightmares Bruce couldn't even dream of. He keeps his back to the entrance. Bruce has been taking good care of himself, if his fluid movements are anything to go by -- he moves lightly around Bane, his steps not even echoing in the near-silent chamber -- and his remaining weakness will have to run more along the lines of psychological.

"I hope you're not looking for an apology." He starts. Bane snorts. "You know...if things had been a little different we could've been partners." Bruce continues once they're away from the hall and deeper into the dark, where the artificial ground stretches out into fathomless black. "At the League."

"But they were not. We are here now, and I hate you just as much as ever." Bane responds with a roll of his neck. Bruce shakes his head.

"At least you're honest." 

It is their most _savage_ fight. Nothing like when Bane had cornered him all those years back at the League, before his mask and before his persona, and he'd tried to _kill_ him. Still nothing like Bruce's humbling in the storm drains after Selina's double-cross. Bruce weaves between his blows and sends fists into his stomach, his sides, testing his boundaries with virtual feather touches. Bane is not so restrained. He hits swifter, _harder_ , and waits for the moment the man becomes too cocky and leaves himself open. The dark allies with him, as it always does, and the strange environment does nothing to impede his steps.

The opening, however, is yet to come. Bruce doesn't betray any give, always ducking down or backing away _just_ so to get Bane to chase. That's what he's here for, after all, and he's exploiting _his_ weakness in turn. Clever. Unfortunately for him, he always was the _better_ fighter. Bane lunges forward and grapples at his arms without warning. Bruce hunches forward and immediately goes for the mask, just like he did at the library -- despite lacking gloves he doesn't hesitate to slam his knuckles into the wires. One is knocked loose, hissing analgesic into the air, and he has to focus all his concentration on blocking the next blow when he feels the instinct to reach up and repair. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Alfred has disappeared. Not his concern.

"Your mask is like the opposite of mine." He swings and Bane ducks his head, reaching out one arm to block and the other to twist the wire back into place. "I really left an impression on you, didn't I?"

"Too many." He hisses back. "Not all of them _favorable_."

With both hands free he breaks through Bruce's barrier and delivers a kick to his stomach that sends him to the ground. It's the perfect opportunity for a killing blow. Bruce is hastily trying to get to his feet, Bane is rushing to keep him there. That was one of the many singular differences between them -- he didn't want to kill, but Bane had _no_ such inhibitions. A gunshot makes them both freeze where they are.

"Stop." Alfred cocks the pistol in the shelter of the hallway light. " _No more_."

Bane's eyes narrow. He wonders where he came upon such a thing, with Bruce's well-known distaste for firearms, and a glance at the model suggests it's a personal investment. He looks quickly at the man's face and he's reaching a similar conclusion, affronted and shocked all at once. Alfred had tried to shoot him, once. Back at the warehouse when Bane had nearly lost his mind with loathing (or, according to John, _had_ lost his mind). Poor aim or misplaced mercy, Bane couldn't say. He still wasn't leaving without Talia. Without his armor there is little to keep a bullet from piercing a lung or slicing through his heart. He reconciles with these details as Bruce speaks.

"Put the gun down-" Bruce starts, voice tight, one hand tentatively raised out. Alfred shakes his head, walking out, closer to them, though not so close he's swallowed by darkness.

"I _tried_ to make you stop. All I wanted was to see you free from...from _this_." Bane senses a well-worn conversation here. "You've made so many decisions I just can't support, Bruce. I can't..."

Bane's sympathy only goes so far. Taking a bullet _isn't_ in the plan. Alfred is only a few feet away, but one twitch in his direction could be one of the last things he sees. His attention is on Bruce, still lamenting about his charge's lost chances at true happiness, about his chemistry with Selina and the years he locked himself away. The former dark knight, however, is facing _him_. Bane would tell him his hidden plans with a gaze, but Bruce is trying to talk Alfred down, hands raised and voice gentle.

"I can leave, Alfred." Bane offers, shifting just so to turn his body toward the hall and prepare himself. It's a lie, outright, but the man is not entirely in his right mind. "I can find another way to settle this."

"Let you leave and then what? To spread your misery in some other city? You and your daughter have done a lot of harm, Bane. Too much." He shifts his grip on the pistol, as if steeling himself. "I didn't shoot you when you took him. I still don't want to..."

That's enough for him. Bane acts.

He whips a hand through the gap and grabs the old man by the neck. It works as intended -- he tries to twist away immediately, leaving him open to grapple his arms into a less threatening position. Bruce lashes out to shove him away, yelling at him to let the man go. Where the plan goes wrong is in the middle of it all he fires. Ears ringing from the shot Bane grabs his wrist and twists it, sending the pistol from his hands to clatter onto the floor and slide away. Bruce gapes at the hole in his chest.

" _No_..." The old butler gasps. "No, no, no..."

Bane watches Bruce try to stem the flow of blood with one hand. He picks up the gun and promptly takes out the bullets, flinging them away to discourage another mistake on Alfred's part. Bruce watches them clatter into the shadows, then chuckles.

"Not going to shoot me? Weird...standards." He coughs, sinking onto the shimmering floor. "Ra's would be proud of us, huh?"

"He's dead." Bane says as he looms above him, imagining shoving a cruel thumb into the wound and twisting. "And so are his standards."

"Bruce, please, don't move...Bane, don't kill him." Alfred begs. "He didn't hurt her. Talia. He's sick. He's just sick."

Alfred's pleas wash over him like rain. A perfect twist of fate. Oh, he's wanted this for so _long_.

This self-centered, pompous, naive man who made a mockery of the League's values and turned Ra's attention away from him, despite being _everything_ the old al Ghul said he was fighting against. Bruce took these ancient teachings and used them as supplement to mold his pain into a wild fantasy better suited for _fairytales_ than change. The city was pulled after his delusion, this desire for justice without transformative measures, playing nice with government agents and crooked officers from the safety of his shadows. Everything al Ghul said he despised. Everything Bane did.

" _Please_." Alfred grabs him uselessly as he steps over the treacherous drops of blood, kneels to the floor and puts a hand on Bruce's neck. "Please, don't..."

When Bruce Wayne's spine had cracked over his knee deep within the storm drains he was _sure_ it would be one of his finest moments. Then he'd climbed out of the pit with all the odds against him and made him reconsider everything he knew. Now he has the man's throat between his fingers and...and he can't bring himself to _squeeze_. For a moment he curses John's memory, _all_ the orphaned boys that captured his heart and turned him tender, and the shame that follows right after is so hot he momentarily forgets the chill.

He wants to _spite_ the deceased al Ghul's memory and make him roll in his grave by proving him wrong, _again_ , right before he closes the chapter on his daughter's legacy. One last line of Gotham poetry, a perfect conclusion only he could write. But Ra's had been wrong. He'd always been wrong. He excommunicated Bane to cover up his own shame and had lied endlessly about his potential. About Bruce's. He never showed enough understanding or patience toward his daughter, a responsibility Bane had tried to shoulder all by himself for far too long. Bruce is choking now. His mind is wandering down old paths, but his hand obeyed his killing instinct. The skin of his face is starting to flush purple and his hands scrape at his forearm with increasingly futile motions.

He'd been wrong...and _he'd_ been wrong...and he'd...wanted to prove he was better. Ra's had never let go, right up until the very moment he died of pride. If Bane could move on...well and truly...

The man's head flops back to the floor. Alfred sobs openly with relief, unsteadily lowering to his knees to check his pulse with shaking fingers. Bane rises to his feet and staggers back, lets out a long, slow breath through his nose and closes his eyes. His body feels like lead, but his mind...

"He was just _sick_..." The old butler mutters, shaking his head, pitiful in his sudden helplessness. "Bruce, breathe, breathe now..."

"I know a thing or two about being sick." Bane responds. Somehow...these are the easiest breaths he has taken in a _long_ time. "Now... _where_ is Talia?"

"You need to stop this madness, Bane." Alfred is pulling off his sweater hastily, pushing at the wound still blooming on Bruce's chest. "This can't keep _happening_ between you two."

"I assure you, this is coming to an end. You won't see me again after this." He pulls him to his feet and shakes him. Bane doesn't want to hurt him, but he will if it comes down to it. "Tell me _now_."

Alfred points a shaking finger away from the room. Bane doesn't wait for details. He has to move quickly. She could be long gone by now. Disappearing acts were no stranger to her -- being surrounded by a treasure trove of advanced technology, many of them cloaking devices and data scramblers, would only bring out the best in her natural talents. Bane swallows back the snarl building in his throat as he rounds useless hallway after hallway. The only room he goes into is the only one that seems to be occupied, a faint light peering through the bottom of the door like a beacon.

Bane opens the door...and is staggered. Talia is sitting in a simple dress and cardigan, no weapons and no visible attempt at escape with a child in her arms. The room doesn't boast the minimalist cleanliness of the rest of the cave. It's softer...more prim, with lacy tablespreads and warmer wallpaper in a modern touch on Victorian stylings. The soft lamp covers in each corner emulate natural light in lieu of windows. A fireplace is unused on the far wall.

"Bane?" She looks at him much like Alfred, confused and slow to the uptake. Her gaze follows the smears of blood on his fatigues, halts on the open doorway, then returns once more to his face. "...Where's Bruce?"

"Incapacitated." Bane walks inside, carefully, looking for any trap or sign he should be wary, even though it's nearly impossible to pull his gaze from the two before him. Unlike Alfred, however, the situation sinks in much quicker.

"I'm assuming you're not here to take me home."

"Where would that even be? You've rejected every single place that has taken you." Bane hisses, without the same anger, already feeling his resolve crumpling like paper. "The old League, the new, Gotham..." He finally heaves out the sigh he's been holding ever since Bruce sank a knife into his back and dragged her off into the pale light of the tiny Gotham island. "Why, Talia? I gave you my life to give you better. Why?"

"I _had_ better." She sounds like a little girl again. As stubborn as brick. "You didn't want me."

"Not like that. Never like that. Talia, you..." Bane is feeling some of Alfred's helplessness now. The helplessness of a parent that can't get through to their child. He wants to break something. Take one of the pristine lamps and shatter it along the far wall. With the child he holds himself back, like a dog on a leash, and clenches his fists tight. "If I was what you wanted... _why_ did you bear Bruce's child?"

There's an ugly answer in her eyes. He senses it, rejects it, before she even speaks. "...What better way to continue the League then with a child of Talia al Ghul and Ra's favorite student?"

"So the child is a _tool_." Bane spits. "Like everyone else who has crossed your path."

Talia's expression twitches, then falls. She looks down at the baby again when she squirms. "...I also wanted a daughter."

Bane's tense breathing slows down, bit-by-bit. He can see it. Only now Talia was realizing her mistakes...when it was too late.

' _Gotham poetry._ ' Bane thinks, wretchedly, and wants to die. 

"The world will fester as it always has." Talia mutters, her words mad and lovely. "First Gotham, then Metropolis, then every other city like blood clots in an artery. Ra's was an old fool, but he knew better than to keep trying." He can hear it in her voice. She no longer feels the same conviction to these destructive ideas she did before. It's a stunning realization he has that maybe, sheltered in the Batcave with a man she once admitted to finding funny, she'd unexpectedly found a moment of peace. It wouldn't be too absurd. Bane himself had never thought he would find someone like John Blake in the city. In his _life_.

John. A man that saw him in all his intelligence, ferocity and determination and _still_ believed he could be better.

Panic erupts. He could take her and the child and go. He could take her and the child and _stay_. The cave could be his. Its secrets would be their own. Everything could go back to the way it used to. He could fix her. Years from now, decades from now, he could pull madness from her like infection from a wound. It could be _just_ like it used to.

But it wouldn't be.

He would have to live with the knowledge that he had completely and utterly failed Lael's little girl. That he had been too wrapped up in obsession and _rage_ and denial to admit to the degradation before his very eyes, a degradation that could have seen Gotham one of the largest gravesites on the planet in less than a blink. One he could've stopped if he'd just been _honest_ with himself. People had died because of her direct involvement with Crane and her indirect support of harmful systems. Their blood was on her hands, on _his_.

"She still doesn't have a name." Talia shifts to face him, though her eyes are still downcast, gazing at the bundle in her arms. A startling, horrible, mirror-image of her mother. "...Help me come up with one."

Bane trembles. All the things he's accomplished over the decades and he's...never held a baby before. Young children outside of Talia, a few times, but the fragile creature he takes into his hands has him acutely aware of his strength in a way he's never known before. He cradles the infant's head in the crook of his arm and goes stock still when she wriggles, weak and sleepy. She's far too tiny. Her skin is translucent, showing hints of blue, and it would be some time yet before the premature curse would lift from her body. If she made it at all.

"She's beautiful." He whispers. Talia smiles for the first time since he came in.

"I've come up with many, but none seem right." She adjusts the soft white hat that warms the child's bald head. "I was going to ask you when you came for me."

"Did Bruce offer any?" There's a weight in his chest and it grows heavier the longer he stares at the child's face. He thinks it could be love at first sight.

"A few. They didn't suit her." She goes silent, watching Bane as he pets the baby's head with tentative, slow motions. "Did you kill him?"

"...No."

She's silent. Bane doesn't have to look to know she's stunned. Time has passed by slyly, because the child starts to whimper for food. Perhaps the familiar press of the mother's breast. He would have to find a similar enough substitute for the near future. He sets her down as gently as possible as not to wake her further. After a moment's deliberation he finds one of the small blankets and wraps her all the way up to her chin. The tiny girl looked permanently cold.

Talia never feared death. She looks into his eyes once he's done with the same acceptance she would the view out her window. He feeds his psychosis once more by holding her, just like he always used to. A cage of muscle and bloodlust to shield her from the world. A heartbeat to soothe her soul.

"Is he truly good enough for you?" Talia murmurs into his chest. "John Blake."

"...Better."

"I see."

Bane faces her, just like he faced the yawning opening at the top of the pit all those years ago, puts both hands around her neck and squeezes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Busy busy busy. 
> 
> I went to a convention all the way across the country for a week, then came back to a bunch of dentist appointments (I had two this week and have three more to look forward to, I'm not kidding) and my usual attempt at balancing rest, a social life and work...and plenty of fanfic.
> 
> this chapter was tough to write and came out kind of flawed and filled with little holes but I'm just glad I've kept going to be honest!!!


	65. The Winds Of Change

" _Nearly eight months after lockdown came to a close and officials believe it could be outlawed permanently. Here's what Gothamites have to say about the consideration..._ "

A flurry whips up around the reporter's legs as she shuffles through downtown Gotham and looks around for someone to interview on live television. A man with shaggy black hair and a thick blue scarf that trails nearly to his waist smiles at someone off-camera, half his face covered from view, then turns to the reporter as she asks for his attention. The year's first sight of snow has dappled white in his hair and settled stubbornly onto his shoulders. Passerbys cast glances their way as they shuffle toward their destination.

" _Excuse me, sir, could I get your name?_ "

" _Rob_."

" _Rob, I'm Valerie here with The Gotham Street Journal doing some interviews to get a better idea on what everyday people think about some of the recent institutional changes. Would you be able to answer a few quick questions?_ " When he nods the reporter slides with practiced ease into a prepared speech. " _So, what do you think about the potential lockdown ban? Do you think this is a hasty decision or a good idea?_ "

She holds the mic to where his mouth would be. He keeps the scarf up, but leans forward and speaks without hesitation.

" _Well, it's definitely not a good sign when Gotham citizens have to take things into our own hands, right? Lockdown was a complete mess and I don't think I know anyone who was happy about it. Not adults, not kids. Just politicians who didn't even have to go through all the scary events they kept promising to stop. Until the city can prove they can get the job done taking things into our own hands is what we're going to keep doing_." He laughs. " _Which is saying something, since we don't even get overtime pay_."

" _True, true. You seem like you pay close attention to the news. What do you think of Commissioner Gordon's new incentive to reduce the military presence of local law enforcement, then? Do you think that'll put us more at risk or allocate funds toward more deserving causes?_ "

" _I've lived in Gotham all my life. We're way overdue for some better policy. Last time we saw their military might they blew up their own buildings trying to catch a guy they couldn't even find half the time, so I think that sounds great. I'm far more worried about the Gotham City Police Department abusing their power than any villain of the week_." He shrugs a careless shoulder. " _Gordon's heart was in the right place, but that just doesn't cut it these days_."

" _Funny you mention that. There has been a lot of hubbub about new vigilantes roaming the streets. The Batgirl became very popular last year. There are even reports of another crime fighter near East End by the name of 'Nightwing'. Do you think Gotham has found successors to the infamous dark knight or is this just a trend that'll fade?_ "

" _Well, they'll have some pretty big shoes to fill, and I don't just mean for his image. Batman was loved and hated the city over."_ He laughs again, softer this time. _"Here's hoping **they** don't just view it as a trend and do some good_."

" _I agree. Especially after all we've seen these past few years. You know, just what happened to Bane, anyway?_ " Valerie glances at the cameraman, as if sharing a secret with the audience. " _I think it's pretty suspicious he and Batman left around the same time!_ "

Her smile fades when she turns back to Rob and sees his demeanor suddenly turn frosty.

" _Yeah, funny that_."

" _You seem like a busy guy, so I want to thank you for your time, Rob_." The woman nods briskly at the cameraperson, then turns back to him. " _Let's close this off with just one more question. Do you want to see the Batman return?_ "

Rob's eyes curve into a sharp smile over his scarf.

" _I think we got this_."

\--

 _Nothing tastes the same. Affliction speaks for me and I never learned how to beg for mercy_.

Fall can be felt in the air, already too cold and showing hints of frost on the breeze when they technically had another month and a half to go. Gotham was still a punctual Hell to live in, but it was still here and so was he.

St. Swithin's is the most festive it's ever been. Ever since donations started picking up again the boys have been reveling in the rare sensation of feeling 'spoiled' -- not only do they have more clothes than their small closets can bear, there are wreaths and ribbons curling everywhere when he approaches. In his humble opinion, they deserved twice as much.

Finn sent him a text reminder about the upcoming party, right after he got finished doing a little 'undercover' work in The Narrows -- it was more efficient to hide in plain sight and his new identity has made sneaking around far easier. He would've loved to have invited Selina and Harleen, but they were content to send them well-wishings (and photo ops) from wherever they currently were in Europe. He'd have to pester them for an address so he could send them both something for the holidays. A thank-you card and a bottle of wine wasn't much in exchange for his brand-new life free from prison, but it'd have to do. Hopefully she wouldn't taste his piss-poor budget.

He starts feeling like a tween again moving throughout the newly refurbished orphanage and admiring the shiny floorboards. God, these would've been nice when he was trying to get some sleep after a shift and he could hear every last toss and turn upstairs. The wood hardly budges when he steps on them and the only real claim to noise right now is the dog bouncing and howling in the dining room area.

"We saw you on TV!" Emanuel cries when he passes through the living room. "Tiya wouldn't stop talking about the reporter when he dropped by. I think he has a crush on her."

"She's even prettier in person." Robin grins. "Tell him I said that."

"Now he _really_ won't shut up." Jai sighs when Emanuel agrees.

"Hey, Robin, can you take her outside, please?" Amir yells down at him when he arrives in the kitchen. He's putting the finishing touches on the banner above the dining room table. His last physical therapy session was just a month ago and he's been making up for lost time by insisting on drawing and writing all the decorations he can. "She keeps trying to jump onto the chairs..."

"No problem. Come on." He hooks two fingers in her leash and tugs her back. "Out with you. Those look great, by the way. Your sense of color is really getting better."

"Your art critiques are getting better!" Amir chirps after him.

He looks at the photo of Reilly on the stand. It's the one he had in his phone -- the boys always found it funny and it just seemed more appropriate than some buttoned-up portrait that didn't reflect who the man was.

 _Day in, day out, day in, day out. Eloquence has failed me. All I want is for night to fall_.

"...Place looks good, doesn't it?" He touches the frame. "I'll try my best at karaoke this year. Euro-pop, your favorite. I won't hit your high notes, but I've been practicing in the shower, so that's probably going to give me a leg up. We're still having other orphanages get together for the holidays. We got one coming today. They're brand new, just got founded this year, and we want to give them a welcoming party of sorts." He smiles to himself, mimicking Reilly's stern voice. "I remember you saying this on the phone a few years back...'Hard to miss out on the classic family model when you have one bigger and better than anything else out there.'"

An all-girls orphanage, Abigail's Home For Girls, arrives right on time. Robin may have had to hire help to keep the orphanage running, but it didn't mean he was going to let all of Reilly's old traditions fade into obscurity -- he greets them at the front door just like the old Father would, shaking all their hands individually (and backing off with good humor when a few of the girls are too shy). The Swithin's boys are well-behaved, even delighted at this new perspective on an old routine, and the caution in the girls' eyes quickly melts away at their exuberance.

Joel baked them all blueberry muffins as a gift, blue from top-to-bottom, and adults and kids alike crow over how good they taste while the boy squirms in delight. His mother's presence is a welcome addition -- he knew he wasn't wrong when he pegged Sasha a wonderful parent, because she keeps track of the flurry of kids as good as Reilly ever did. Joel is eager to meet all the new faces and introduce them to Trevor, the only one more excited than he is. She preens with the extra attention and tries to lick every last face she sees, which is particularly easy when most of the people in the room are only a few feet tall.

Sasha is careful to call him Robin all the while. When one of the girls notes how much he looks like 'that boy in the photos', she diverts their attention with ease by asking if she'd like to participate in a group picture with the boys. It was nice to feel lucky sometimes.

After helping put the early Christmas presents where the dog (and younger boys) can't get to them and doing some last-minute yard work he retreats to the living room to double-check the greeting cards. One to Harleen and Selina. Another to Barbara and Gordon. One to Ms. Jones and her daughter, written by him. He'd seen them in-person, but even that vulnerable talk in their kitchen near Grand Avenue hadn't felt like enough. Maybe he'd always be apologizing for not doing enough for Waylon.

When the day's over he's emotionally full but physically exhausted. It's hard having to leave with the get-together still going strong (the boys currently crowded in the living room and listening with awe as the girls show off their choir skills), but he stresses he'll be back as soon as he can.

"Yo! You're getting _another_ one?" The food truck owner cries when he jogs up to the front.

"It's not just for me." He clarifies as he pulls out his wallet. "It's also for a friend."

"Shit, that's what they all say." He waves off his crumpled dollar bill and shoves the bag at him. "Nah, nah, keep it. On the house. Just gimme some word-of-mouth, you hear? I make good shit!"

Pamela's blue flowers have withered up, the only evidence of their existence their thin roots traveling up the sides of buildings and weaving through sidewalks like varicose veins, but she reassured him (or rather, Barbara) they would come out in full bloom once spring came back. It took time for everyone to become comfortable with the strange new plant, but once the word got out they only did good for the city's notoriously polluted air they became extremely popular -- he occasionally sees potted plants with vivid blue stalks on windowsills. He had some himself, though just three. Any more was just asking for trouble.

 _The rope has dangled without me_.

An alternate route to East End today. He skips the transit, even though it means twenty minutes more walking. It's small, cramped and a little too cold, but his heart still lifts at the sight of his apartment door. Robin glances at the front bushes by the stairwell, then grins when he sees the old ballpoint pen sticking out of the leaves. Victor dropped by. He opens the front door and calls inside.

"Hey, you hungry? I grabbed some burritos on the way back."

"Ooh, toss it here. I skipped breakfast."

"Again? You know that's the most important meal of the day." Robin tugs off his shoes and kicks them into the corner. Victor scoffs at that and reaches out for the burrito. He's bundled in his overnight hoodie and curled up in the corner of the sofa. "Seriously, I don't know how a linebacker gets away with missing so many meals."

"Well, raiding your fridge helps. Good thing you're a fan of vegetables."

His was a welcome face. Robin's past life and obligations felt like a dream sometimes, but he was still just as busy as he ever was. The man was a tech wizard and they hit it off almost immediately after a chance encounter at a retro video store, though Robin wasn't about to tout his lagging skills as the primary foundation -- last time he really got a chance to practice was that freelance programming gig Barbara found him. Before, like so many other things, everything went to the birds. They had similar perspectives on social issues and it wasn't hard to get along with him. While Victor didn't _quite_ get the appeal of silent films and they had more than a few disagreements on cleaning habits, that was par for the course with a not-quite-roommate.

It would be nice to have more company around. He had to rock solitude more than he'd like, but it never really stuck all the way and Barbara was always taking pity on him by inviting him over. Well, maybe pity wasn't the right word. She'd been there during most of the recent hard times. Particularly near the end when they left the mountain stronghold and had to maintain one of Gotham's biggest white lies together -- she in front of the cameras, him behind-the-scenes and well out of sight with the boys.

She doesn't bring Bane up anymore. Neither does he. Moving on wasn't a good habit, not yet, but he's sure it'll come with time. Some days are harder than others, but aren't they always?

"You're fucking kidding me. They got targeted _again?_ " Robin peers at Victor's screen -- the lower half of East End was taking another hit. He and Victor had successfully intercepted an immigration raid just last week, a disgusting and suspiciously _thorough_ door-to-door in a food district, but local law enforcement had taken it as a sign to crack down harder. His stomach curls as he reads the short text interviews on the six o' clock news of families fearing being split up for good...then it tightens into a knot when one, a weathered old woman with a hard stare, looks directly into the camera and says:

" _Siempre la futuro._ "

"You all right?" Victor asks when he pulls away and busies himself with putting away his coat and shoes.

"Sure." He responds after swallowing back the clutching in his throat. "If by 'all right', you mean pissed."

"Yeah. Tenacious bastards. Looks like it'll be another all-nighter." He rolls his thick neck and cracks his knuckles in anticipation. He recalls how endlessly tickled Barbara was that it's the burly football all-star that stays behind-the-scenes doing tech work while Robin, in all his 5'9" glory, did the physical work. She should know first-hand how deceiving looks can be. "Imagine what we could do with a third person." He adds as he tears into his food with gusto. "We'd be the three musketeers of Gotham."

"Weren't there technically four?" Robin offers as he slumps down beside him and stretches out his bad hip. He's not as hungry, but he eats anyway -- he might have to run out on short notice if their feeds start blowing up, anyway.

"Why the hell isn't it called the Four Musketeers, then?"

Robin thinks of the best way to admit he's never actually _read_ the book when he hears a knock on the door. With a groan he balances on his good leg and tip-toes unevenly across every other floorboard to keep them from creaking (the orphanage raised him well), peering into the peephole with a hand on his gun holster. Nearly a year later and his healthy dose of paranoia at the sound of knocking had yet to die down. Considering how bold Gotham officials were getting, it'd probably be one of the best tools in his toolbox.

"We might have to head out before eight, by the looks of it." Victor calls out. Robin nods idly.

"Sure. I'll get ready after this..."

A shock of frizzy red hair greets him. He swiftly undoes the lock, flicks open the back-up and opens the door to squint at Barbara. It must be _big_ if she's dropping by in-person. He didn't think he'd get to see her until the Christmas Eve party.

"Hey, long time no-" Robin starts, but he doesn't get to finish. She's waving an envelope in his face frantically.

"I know, I know this is out of the blue, I just got this tonight. Damned postal service is-" She cuts herself off and pushes it at him, a few curls straggled over her forehead from the wind. "I think it's _him_."

Robin's heart sputters to a stop. It takes what feels like a good minute for him to come up with the words to respond.

"Barb, he, uh, hasn't sent anything in months, it can't-"

"No, look at the handwriting. It's _identical_." She taps it. "I scanned it for anything suspicious. It's the real deal."

Victor looks up from his laptop and smiles shyly when he sees Barbara in the doorway -- the guy had a thing for her, just like every other person who met her -- but Robin doesn't have it in him to tease this time. He stares at the yellowing envelope, trying to get a hint of what's inside by holding up to the light, going through the motions to give _something_ for his nerves to hold onto. He doesn't know if it's a lost letter. There's no timestamp for him to reference. He doesn't know if it's a suicide note. He doesn't know and, for once, he wants everything _but_ to dig after the truth.

"When...did you get this?" Robin whispers, faintly.

"I just got it in the mail today." She stresses. "Open it."

Victor doesn't know about him, but the man can tell the visit's important with the way his face drops in the corner of his eye.

"You...all right, Rob?" He asks a second time, slowly folding his laptop shut.

"Yeah, no, I'm..." Robin blows out a sigh and rubs a hand along his forehead. "I'm sorry, this is...I'll call you, all right?"

"...Yeah, man. No worries." He taps the paper bag. "You gonna eat the rest?"

Robin waves a hand. His appetite was the least of his concerns right now. Barbara follows Victor outside and he's left alone with the letter, which feels like a brick in his hands. He looks around for a distraction, something to put off the inevitable, and eventually forces himself to tug the envelope open and unfold the smooth, yellow paper inside. His eyes instantly hone in on the curly script at the very top.

 _To John_.

He sucks in a tight breath and glances at their silhouettes by the window, suddenly and wholly terrified.

I _have always had a troublesome relationship with hope. From my youngest days in the pit to adulthood it was a force as unpredictable and destructive as an incoming storm, nothing I could truly grasp without eventually losing, but that never dimmed its power. I have found myself at the mercy of hope these long months and it has both sustained me and battered me around in its will. It is with a fresh heart I say...I hope this letter reaches you well_.

Robin turns away from the paper and runs a slow hand down his face, trying to breathe past the blockage that's settled in his chest. The apartment is almost peaceful, nothing but the soft _clink-clink_ of the stove starting up, but the roar in his ears crashes into his head like waves. Reach him well? Life was beginning to make sense and this letter was the equivalent of throwing a Molotov into someone's window.

 _That said, despair has held me firmer than any pain I have encountered in my life. I would say long, but time is a relative thing, is it not? What may seem mere minutes to one can become an eternity to another. It feels sometimes I've wandered the earth for centuries. I am...tired_.

Heat starts to swell behind his eyes. He needs to stop reading. Maybe if he stops whatever horrible conclusion he reaches at the end won't happen and he can coast for another almost-year on ignorance and hope. Robin runs a thumb over the ink, imagining Bane's hand moving across the page. The calloused palm that covered his own during their Gotham nights, cradling the pen like a sewing needle. Like they belong to another person his eyes drag themselves across the page.

 _I have left you to wonder as to my fate. I can only imagine how long the days have become in this gap. I want nothing more than to apologize. Spill my grief onto this page and sink you into the depths of this regret. I never wanted to hurt you, but some of the world's greatest pains were well-intentioned, and hurt travels. Trauma's jagged line is one I have become beholden to, even as I followed hope with graceless steps. Knowing my limitations, the mountains I have climbed each and every day, I still feel the winds of regret calling at my back. I am sorry, John. I am sorry for doing this to you_.

This is it. This is where he finds out for sure what he'd been dreading ever since that night, where Bane had gotten drunk and they'd sat together in his cramped, dark room talking about life. He'd run those weary, eloquent confessions in and out of his head like a skipping record for any missing clues. Time didn't run down the clarity of his words, as much as he begged it to. It was one of his many personal reminders that some people never move on. Not him. Not Bane.

_I write this with the moonlight at my side. A midnight sun I once dreamt of with a caged imagination, a wholly mundane and utterly beautiful encounter every time I open my eyes now. The steppe is rich as a sonnet during the day. I feel as if I bear witness to a new painting with each passing morning. Sometimes I think of Amir and the art he could create here. I imagine Jay and Tiya would enjoy the warm weather and open fields. Your boys have made hope easier for me. Are they doing well?_

' _They talk about you, but don't say your name. Amir still draws you in his sketchbook. Joel isn't afraid of the dark anymore. Even his panic attacks have gotten better, he barely has them anymore except when going to a new place_.' Robin gulps back hot tears. ' _He keeps fucking asking when you're going to visit_.'

 _I bear a new life. With all new things it is fragile and must be carefully guarded if it is to flourish. I have a new name, though not quite. A new temporary home, with an old tongue I speak, nestled between the heartlands that make up the League's knotted brotherhood. New and old obligations alike in this republic, small stories in a small town with futures larger than any imagination. I would send for you myself, but I can only imagine the new restraints you have had to navigate in the wake of Gotham's change. I have kept up with its news as best I can. I am pleased to see so many taking charge of their own destinies and refusing the pallid promises of their self-tited superiors_.

Robin wants to laugh at these typical Bane-isms, but he's still struggling to breathe at all. It's the first time he feels a crack in the anguish. His gut is telling him something's different.

_Love, I would tell you of the personal pits I have climbed out of. The demons I have had to wrestle into submission and the ghosts that whisper to me even now. None of it is fit for a letter, even one as bare as this, and I would share the passing days to your face. You're a clever man, John. You study the harsh glare of the past and you keep your face turned toward the fathomless depths of the future. The puzzles I have left in this letter are little match for your keen eye and your massive heart._

_I hope to see you soon._

There's no signature. Nothing else but the small, neatly timed blank square in the bottom-right corner. He tries to think of anything that could be in the way of this revelation. He could be asleep right now and dreaming. Crane's toxin could be making him hallucinate in the cruelest way. Someone could be forging Bane's identity and trying to get to him.

Barbara knocks on the door and jerks him out of his paranoid spiral, asking if he's 'okay in there'. He's not dreaming (and he pinches himself again for good measure, hard enough to leave an early bruise). No, not even a little. Crane's toxin has shown fewer and fewer signs over the months. There was no hard evidence that he'd died, even _if_ nearly everything else had pointed to exactly that. The last major clue, well...nobody spoke like Bane.

Robin pulls out his phone and, after dropping it twice, opens up the dialpad.

\--

They cause enough trouble to keep one of the targeted neighborhoods in the clear. Robin only has a few bruises to show for it. It's good news, but for once in what feels like forever...there's just _one_ thing on his mind.

He spends three days following the clues in the letter. After more cups of drip coffee than he can count (with 'Nightgale' playing on loop on his laptop when he gets sick of the news), he figures out at nearly three in the morning where Bane has been for nearly eight months.

Barbara doesn't even hesitate to offer him a hefty enough sum to cover the flight _and_ a two-week hotel stay. Robin knows she has money to spare, but she was still like a sister to him. Taking money from a younger sister just didn't feel _right_. She rolls her eyes and looks like she's trying not to laugh when he says as much.

"We're family, so just view it like an early Christmas gift or something." The smile fades from her face. "Look...I didn't always agree with the man, but...he meant a lot to you." She speaks slower than normal, and he knows it's the hesitance that follows months of an unspoken rule on a taboo topic. "You've been giving 110% to Gotham this whole time, with that warrant _still_ on your head, and...I don't know. Maybe this is also my way of saying thank you. To both of you." Her voice hardens. "We're going to clear your name. One of these days."

Robin's throat grows thick. Barbara was there when he had his first breakdown after Bane vanished. It was a rare brunch at the orphanage and he'd given himself his first day off in weeks to enjoy a fancy breakfast with the boys -- Tiya had been taking well to his adoptive parents and wanted everyone to meet them properly. The pair were fantastic guests, easily joking with everyone over their plates and blending into St. Swithin's signature dynamic of casual and affectionate like they'd always been part of the family.

He lost it in front of _everyone_ when the living room television flashed a newsclip of Bane and he was suddenly hit by all the days without him. He'd excused himself to go hole up in the bathroom, splashing his face with cold water and talking at his reflection in an attempt to push down the grief. He instead ended up sitting on the toilet and heaving animal noises into his hands for the next hour and a half while everyone milled in the hallway and begged him to unlock the door. Tiya's parents had to be talked down by Barbara when they tried to phone for help.

Once he thought Bane had been killed in an explosion. The nearly three weeks of his absence had felt like a lifetime. This...he still hasn't come up for a word for this.

"At least you can get some real answers now." She sits down in front of his laptop and pulls open a search engine. "Let's see...the holidays are around the corner, so we'll have to do some digging to find some decent seats."

"I appreciate it, Barb. I'll pay you back when I can." He narrows his eyes. "...Just don't book me first-class."

Barbara's back stiffens...then the cursor slowly moves away from the 'upgrade' button.

"There." She leans back triumphantly. "Your two-way ticket to Astana, Kazakhstan."

Telecommuting meant he could take his work with him and he idly thinks about how to schedule his work on the plane as he packs. Victor is happy to water his plants while he's gone, but Robin goes a step further and gives him a pair of spare keys. The guy had more than proved himself trustworthy over the months and he honestly feels a lot more secure knowing he was bunking here once in a while. Theft wasn't always at the forefront of his mind, but he wasn't taking his chances.

"Just check all the locks when you leave and try to keep your crazy partying to a minimum."

"I can promise one of those things." He assures. "You gonna give that guy a ring before you go, though? He was pretty into you at The Claw."

Robin's skin clutches guiltily. That was just two weeks ago, when he'd finally given in to his nearly non-existent social life and decided to go out on a triple-date with Victor and one of his college friends. He shakes his head and checks his suitcase for probably the twentieth time. "It was just a night out. Nothing serious."

"Sure." He acquieses, easily, though his eyes are still sharp with concern. "You ever going to tell me what's going on here or...?"

"Once I get some answers. I'm not trying to be mysterious, honest."

"You're pretty good at it, though." He gives him a hug. "Don't become a stranger."

His falsified records go through. The clean slate has done a marvelous job of scrubbing him as spotlessly as a sidewalk in Gotham Heights. Robin still sweats a little when being pat down and scanned before being allowed onto the plane. His new identity has held up well so far, but one wrong move and he'd be on the run all over again -- he's tip-toed on glass for so long it hardly occurs to him to stop once he leaves the Gotham border. A little nausea when the plane finally takes off is nothing compared to the storm in his head. Instead of thrilled he feels agitated, overwhelmed and paranoid. The guy griping into his cellphone the next row over isn't helping.

He went _months_ convinced Bane was dead. Had died. _Something_. What else could he assume after everything he knew about the man and all he'd seen him go through? Bruce disappeared not long after he and Barbara set foot back in Gotham. Bane ended up hot on his heels, the big story of the night for forever _straight_ and making Robin want to pull every last hair out of his head at every new headline in the news. In-between memorizing his basic phrases he keeps tugging the letter out of his pocket and re-reading it to make sure it's still real and he didn't just hallucinate the words onto the page.

"Ooh, cursive, huh?" His neighbor says, peeking at him curiously. "I can never read that."

"Yeah." She's been mercifully quiet most of the ride, so he keeps his irritation down and puts on a smile. "It's...an art."

Dozing off earns him a brief and hungry fantasy of Bane pulling him close in the kitchen of his apartment. Tea is brewing on the stovetop. The cold bite of his mask is pressed against his ear and rumbling words he can't understand, canned and distant, words that still reach right through his skin and rattle him. Robin begs him to be _okay_ , to be just _be_ there when he arrives, and he desperately kisses along his forearm when he reaches up to pet his hair. The words never make sense, but he thinks the man is apologizing. The only logical answer is to tug at the strap of his mask with his teeth and growl nonsense words himself.

Maybe a few apologies of his own.

The kettle goes off abruptly and surrounds them in steam so heavy the entire kitchen is cloaked in white, but, no, it's the mechanical _ping_ of an incoming message. The voice murmuring isn't Bane's anymore, maybe it never was, it's the pilot warning them of incoming turbulence and reminding them how to use the emergency airbags. He fully wakes up and has to hastily shift to hide his boner just as the hostess asks if he'd like something to drink.

It's _hot_ in Kazakhstan. Even the ugliest Gotham summer has nothing on the wall of heat that greets him when he steps out into the open air hours later. For a few grounding moments he lets the other passengers bustle and mutter past him, taking in the new sight stretched out around him. The buildings are a dazzling display of colorful lights and shiny surfaces, nothing at all like his home city's monochrome walls, but he's already looking beyond them as best he can to the sloping hills in-between the cracks. Fuck. It was going to be a _long_ walk.

"Are you okay?" The concierge asks when he arrives to the hotel, reaching out to help him with his luggage with casual ease. He saw the preview photos, but the place is still a little _too_ nice now that he's faced with the full force of the interior's sheen and the shockingly clean floors -- he'll have to gripe to Barbara about it once he had the energy. Seriously, he didn't need to be pampered. He grew up a poor _orphan_.

"I'm fine. Bum leg." Their look turns (irritatingly) scrutinizing. Probably trying to figure out of he'd be a burden or not when he made his way into the city. It was a common look and one that didn't get any less so outside of Gotham.

"Moving? Visiting?" They offer as small talk on the way up the elevator. "Many new people come to Kazakhstan this year. Students. Lots of families."

"Not really." He responds, vaguely, swiveling around to take everything in at once. "We'll see."

With jet lag and the shit on his mind, sleep is impossible. The borderline wet dream on the plane was a fluke, because now Bane has transformed into his very own nightmare, taunting him with lines that were never in any of his letters or repeating incriminating sentences enough to make him go crazy. After a particularly horrible scene where he arrives at Bane's mountain hideout only to find his rotting corpse bobbing in the pool they once swam in does he _finally_ decide to stay awake and busy himself until the sun rises proper -- Crane's hallucinations were gone, but their after-effect had his dreams feeling as real as the carpet beneath his feet.

Robin skips the continental breakfast in favor of getting a headstart. He's brushed up on as much basic Kazakh possible on the ride over -- his pronunciation seems to be a little _too_ good, because he has people immediately launching into extensive sentences that go flying right over his head. A self-depreciating smile turns into another form of currency as he apologies and gestures his way through the glittering city. It's not hard to enjoy the food (a street fare-lover's wet dream) and he takes a few photos to send to Victor, Barbara and the boys -- he spends an especially long time mugging in front of a landmark to try his best to make Harleen and Selina jealous. It was funny, enjoying the feeling of being in front of a camera for once.

He gets a few peculiar looks at the city gate when he shows up (" _Why the hell isn't this tourist at one of the parks or something?_ "), but once he mentions the village their demeanor changes instantly. A flash of his passport, a quick pat-down and he's off in one of the taxis. It's not all that far, though it could be the newcomer in him spending most of the time admiring the swell of the hills and open sky. Winter was arriving early in Gotham, but the leftover dredges of summer were still stubbornly clinging here. He leaves a generous tip and makes his way into the village, houses and the occasional building spread out in pockets across the plains and along a series of hills.

God, he'd feel like an ass if he ended up getting the wrong place. He'd pored over all the different possibilities and memorized the letter by heart (in every sense of the word) -- even with his growing experience as a detective he feels the sting of a potential, big fuck-up as he tries to make sense of a new place all over again. Robin decides he'll bring up Bane's birth name after he gives his leg a quick rest. He sits on his suitcase beneath the shade of a nearby house, casting friendly smiles at the children milling in and out to assure them he's not just a foreign squatter. It's not a bad opportunity to brush up on his language skills, really -- he can catch a few words amid the chatter, but he learns the most from body language.

He had no clue what constituted a proper small-town vibe, but people always spoke fondly of it. He's starting to feel relaxed watching the hustle and bustle of everyday life. It's not as hurried as Gotham. It's also not as cold, weather aside. Everyone seems to know each other. That little detail should be heartwarming, but it kind of makes his skin crawl and he has to take a step back from himself to get to the root of the feeling. He's lived so _much_ of the past year under a new name and a somewhat-new face. The idea of being known should be welcome, but his brain completely rejects it.

Is this why Bane came here? To be unknown all over again?

Robin is giving into the heat and unhooking the first two buttons on his shirt when he sees a familiar pair of sleepy blue eyes in the cluster of passing heads.

"... _Barsad?!_ "

Wearing a loose, knitted sweater and shaggier than he remembers him, it was none other than the League's second-in-command himself. Whatever weariness is drawing lines on the man's forehead vanish at the sight of him and he has to graciously apologize for bumping into someone when he attempts to push his way through the crowd. A few people look their way with curious smiles when they come together in a tight hug that lingers.

"Blake! As I live and _breathe_." Barsad gasps, wonderingly, and pulls back to give him a proper once-over. "How _are_ you?"

"Hell, I could ask the same of you. You look great." Robin says, immediately, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Nice shirt."

"A gift." Barsad says lightly. It's the most color he's ever seen him wear outside the red scarf. The sun doesn't seem to agree with him, with his cheeks flushed red and his hair sticking to his temple. "How did you find us?"

"Bane sent me-" He cuts himself off and looks around. Nobody spares him even a second glance. Either nobody heard him or his name didn't have the same incensing effect it does in Gotham. He's _not_ going to find out the hard way. "...a letter."

Barsad nods tentatively, brows furrowed, and Robin feels the first pop of anger burst in his chest like a flare. He didn't even tell his _second?_ He vocalizes as much, which has Barsad straightening up and sounding much more like his serious self.

"Hold on. There's a lot you don't know about. Firstly, I'm not his second anymore."

"Wait, what? How come?"

"I agreed to lead the League."

Lead the League? Yeah, there was a _lot_ to catch up on. Robin steels himself as best he can and follows Barsad deeper into the village.

"Secondly...we have been here for the better part of six months. It was high on our list of secondary hideouts, predominantly for its removal from the cities we've dwelt in as well as its current struggles. Many of the people here were being quietly exploited for cheap labor by the neighboring city...you got a first-hand look at its 'decadence'...and too many children were uneducated and without options." He offers a familiar nod to a couple that pass them by. "We installed a better cell service three months back. Amazing what a simple addition can do."

"The better part of six months?" His mind bridges the time gap with painful quickness. That was around the time Bane stopped sending his letters. "Where were you before that?"

"Traveling. Out of Gotham, in and out of multiple countries to gain our bearings, recruiting the rare promising member, investing in our future goals. We even stopped by Russia before settling here. It's not without trouble, of course. Pushback has happened a few times from the village's 'employers' and we still have to prove our good will, mostly to the older residents who have seen too much in their day to trust easily. We had considered an even _more_ rural area to avoid further scrutiny, but a sudden influx of hundreds of people would have been...conspicuous. Even now we have some of the League stay in the city and switch off. It serves a purpose of keeping our numbers superficially low while feeding us information from within."

A young woman with startlingly long black hair attempts to wave them over from the front porch of a house just up a low hill to their right. Barsad's smile grows wider and he calls back in Kazakh. It's a curiously open response, but Robin's mind is still rolling over what he said.

"Is it just coincidence you chose a time to move in when there's a lot of immigration to major cities in this area?" He asks, soaking this new information in hungrily.

"Not at all." Barsad casts him an approving look. "Sharp as ever. I assume you haven't dropped detective work, then?"

"Hell no. I wouldn't say I've been as successful as you, but we've got a good thing going." He clarifies quickly when Barsad's eyebrows raise. "Victor and I. Gotham's very own two-man team to put a dent in local immigration raids and police brutality. He's a tech _wizard_ , Barsad. There's hardly a thing he can't do. He feeds me updates and gives me geographical insight when I move on the field." Irritation lowers his voice. "We've also had to keep an eye on local wanna-be gangs trying to fill in the power vacuum, as well. East End is all but covered, even Old Gotham is doing all right, but The Narrows..."

"Victor?" Barsad stresses, holding up a hand to slow him down. "Who's he?"

"Ah, right. New friend of mine." He leans forward. "Don't go spreading the word, but he sometimes goes by 'The Cyborg' online."

Barsad's eyes glow with recognition. "Ah, Victor Stone! You have good taste."

Now _Robin_ holds up a hand. "Wait, you _know_ about that? All the way out here? Okay, I know you're the League, information masters and all that, but he goes out of his way to obscure his identity. He'd be heartbroken if he found out he got sloppy."

"Not at all. He was a big fan of ours during our stay." Barsad elaborates with a slow grin. "Sent us some very kind, encrypted fan-mail." His tone grows light. "Ah, here's another familiar face."

" _Crocodile Hunter!_ "

Robin dives in for his second bear hug of the day. Salim is just as gangly as ever, curls now in a proper ponytail and wearing the local garb instead of a League jacket and scarf. The sniper gives his shoulder a hearty slap and grins. "Nice beard."

"Seriously? I thought you'd be impressed!" Robin groans, pretending he doesn't see Barsad's smug glance and scrubbing the short, trimmed beard he's grown over the months with one hand. "I've actually been working on it. Makes it harder to be recognized by face sensors."

Now that he's handed the reigns of direction to (relative) locals he allows himself some time to appreciate his surroundings. Everything feels almost _too_ fresh -- he's never been outside of Gotham aside from Metropolis and the flush of the unknown is...exciting. The village is more heavily populated than he expected, but he imagines the natural bias of a city-goer had something to do with the description he got back at Astana. There is still plenty of open space to appreciate as he side-steps through clusters of people, some followed by children and others by herds of goats or sheep. The stench of farm animals makes his nose crinkle. If it wasn't one bad smell it was another. At least he was _used_ to crummy steam vents and car exhaust. With his curved eyes and dark hair he almost fits in, though he'd definitely have to work on his summer tan. He shares about as much with Salim, who laughs and tells him to curl his hair while he's at it.

"Phew, the air is so _nice_ here." Robin tugs his shirt collar in and out to let the breeze in. "It actually hurts my lungs."

"Yes, your poor lungs go through a lot." Salim assesses him closely. "Smoking Gotham air, smoking cigarettes. Is there a difference?"

"I haven't had a cigarette in almost three months, actually." Salim's jaw drops. Barsad frowns approvingly over his shoulder and nods. Robin waves off the reaction. "Yeah. Now I'm addicted to caffeine." They join in a round of laughter as they make their way down a crooked dirt path. The grass grows heavier here and the breeze starts to pick up now that they've left the majority of the buildings behind, flinging the leftover scents of the town at their backs.

"Oh, right." Salim starts, suddenly fidgety and tugging at his chin. "Ah, I was going to ask..."

"Barbara's doing great. She's actually running for mayor." Robin interjects, as lightly as possible, but the flush that creeps into Salim's skin threatens to crack his cool. Shit, he was still crazy about her. "We can give her a call later if she's still up."

Salim nods and pretends to notice something in the distance, but he's grinning from ear-to-ear.

He recognizes a few faces here and there in the thinner crowds -- he spots Khalil, currently preoccupied but with a cigar hanging out of the side of his mouth like always -- and starts to get a sense of the place's layout as Barsad continues to talk. It's slapdash, but not _really_ , with a rhythm he starts to feel in his feet with each new corner they turn.

"...they are very, very careful when retaliating now. They're not happy about their loss in labor, no, but they are even less so when their people go missing far too close to the city's limits. Sometimes they send former overseers to 'check' on the state of their past workers. A fear tactic under the guise of public resources, you know the drill." There's a vicious note to his smile now. "...There are also wolves in these parts."

There's definitely no need to ask how they manage to get _that_ particular detail in place. The League's influence is overarching, yet subtle, like it always is. He's trying to pick specific information out of the overload (there are markers strewn around the town on fence posts and on the sides of buildings, they must mean something) when something starts to sink in.

"...Damn. You've been hard at work." He mutters beneath the distant hubbub of screeching children and braying animals. "Why the hell didn't he tell me about all this sooner? About any of this at _all?_ "

"It's been hard for everyone." Salim offers, quickly, and his damned desire to always jump to Bane's defense makes the anger spike right back. "He has-"

"Of _course_ it's been hard. It's been hard for everybody." Robin hisses. The man's face falls and he leans back. "Doesn't mean I deserve to be left in the _dark_. He sent me a few letters, then all but dropped off the face of the earth!" When Salim just watches him sadly he turns that anger toward the new leader of the League. "Hell, _you've_ hardly mentioned him this entire time. What, is his name a borderline dirty word here, too?"

Barsad lowers his gaze and doesn't speak until all three of them stop in front of a small brick house. A house with potted plants on the railing, a motorbike parked by the steps...and a homespun knitted throw tossed over the wooden chair by the door. Robin recognizes the handiwork and feels his stomach clutch all over again. He doesn't feel attached to his body. He has to grip the suitcase handle and scrape his palms over the cheap pleather to remind himself he's _here_ and he didn't just imagine the trip over. He hasn't had a delusion attack in months, but his brain and gut are _howling_ and somehow there's a rolling, curious voice just beyond the door he's only heard in his dreams. Barsad puts a gentle hand on his elbow when he stops walking.

"Go in whenever you're ready. They're just wrapping up." Barsad takes a step back. "...It's been a long time. This is between you two. Just...try to be understanding."

Understanding? There was nothing to _understand_. Bane told him he would try his damndest to come back to him, then _left_ him to crumble in Gotham alone with nothing but a few increasingly cryptic letters and a void so large he wasn't sure it'd ever be properly filled again. Robin doesn't want to be understanding. He wants to channel every single last long day and horrible night and scream it right in his masked face.

A cluster of voices rise and fall beyond the door. Kids and adults, maybe family members judging by the casual rapport. It doesn't stop one from standing out from the rest. His heart palpitates unevenly when he works open the door with a shaking hand and moves into the close air of what seems to be a community room. Two women stand with a small child between them, a scattering of others nearby of varying ages and similar cheekbones. If this were a film he would immediately guess, by their arrangement and expressions, either the end of a private lesson or a meeting.

A broad-shouldered man is the only one with his back to the door. Judging by the crook of his arm he's holding something in his hand, gesturing with the other as he speaks to one of the children sitting down. His skin is weathered from the sun and a few thin scars can be seen running rivets on his shaved head. Barsad looks to him meaningfully in the corner of his eye, gives his arm an encouraging squeeze, but he's unable to speak...or move or feel or _think_. It's only the gradual silence that falls over the small group that turns the man's attention. Turns him around to face him and...

...it's the scars that draw his eyes first. Thick scars that cut through his nose, his lips, yawning and curving all the way to his chin, like someone had kicked or _clawed_ him with the intent of tearing half his face off. The skin along his forehead and cheeks is smoother, but the old wounds still rise unevenly and crinkle the flesh, the only memory bubbling up in his brain the feel of each bump against his mouth in the dark. There's no black leather jacket, no heavy sheepskin coat. No _mask_. He's still a commanding presence, a stout head or more over everyone else in the room with an air that feels familiar, but he's a touch thinner, he hunches a little, and it's all these details have Robin positive he's looking at a stranger.

And yet, his eyes.

"...John?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may see a sneaky extra chapter up in the chapter count. It's actually the second half of _this_ chapter, which got prettt _ttty_ long, to say the least.
> 
> Almost to the end!


	66. Always The Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for discussions of suicidal ideation, child abuse, disassociation, addiction and loss.

" _Bane?_ "

He can see the man taking in a deep breath, one that trembles his chest, but there's no accompanying _hiss_ or _rattle_. For the love of Christ, he can see his _face_ , a part of him he never thought he'd get to glimpse except in his wildest dreams. All these little details are out-of-place and all the more surreal for it, like a vivid dream that starts to melt away as he wakes up. Robin is trying to hold onto what he remembers, but it slips through his fingers, a mess of feeling and texture and shock.

Reality doesn't feel real.

A few eyes in the room flick to each other, confused, curious, waiting to learn more about the interaction before them and staying silent. Robin watches as Bane's mouth works, slowly, the words forming somewhere off in the distance -- the scars are imprinting themselves in his mind, a fond and distant muscle memory. A bump and press he tried so _hard_ to remember accurately as the lonely months crawled by. Something is itching under his skin. One of a thousand emotions he can't figure out yet besides the all-encompassing _holy fuck_.

Robin doesn't realize he's holding his breath until it comes out in a messy gust.

"Holy...holy _shit._ " He feels like an old computer booting up, sluggish and twitchy. "It's...it's you. You're fucking _here_. Where the...where the hell have you been?"

Bane is similarly jogged out of his stupor, blinking like he's just woken up from a deep sleep. He holds up a hand and rumbles in Kazakh, something that has everyone's eyes widening into circles. One of the kids points directly at him, squeaking at the adults, and they push her hand down and say something that can only be read as chiding. Bane walks up to him, trembling visibly as if he's about to burst, reaches out a hand, then both, and that itch rises up stronger than ever. ...Now he knows what it is. It's _rage._

"...I mean it." He takes a step back and stays at arm's length, the smile on his face chilling into something much more tense. "Where the _hell_ have you been?"

Bane pauses, then slowly lets his hands fall to his sides. His expression is calm, but the curve of his throat is bobbing in a slow swallow.

"A long story."

"Oh, trust me." Robin's scowling now. "I've got _time_."

Bane gives them all a quick, sidelong look. Everyone starts to pick up their things. The anger mutates, as hot as bile, and becomes ugly. Robin remembers this fury when he used to go by Blake. The kind that made him pretend to be someone else in a desperate attempt not to be swallowed alive. It's a rage he knows how to reign back, he's _had_ to know, but this time he doesn't even bother.

"What, don't want them to see what a fucking lying piece of shit you are?" He growls. Bane's eyes widen a little, but he's not angry. More...horrified. Somehow that makes it worse. "Trying to cover up your tracks?"

"No. No, that's not it at all." He stresses, still standing too _close_ , like he has any right to even breathe the same air as him. "We just need to speak alone-"

" _You **left** me alone!_ "

An awkward silence fills the room. Everyone has stopped moving, frozen halfway in-between bending up to pick up backpacks or reaching out to turn the doorknob.

"What the...how could you just vanish like that and not say anything? Not a _word_ that you were still out there after that last letter? Nearly six months ago? Eight months total?" Robin points a finger in his face. "Yes, you're fucking right I counted. I would've given you all the time in the world to heal! If you didn't want me around, couldn't _have_ me around for whatever reason, all you had to do was say so with one simple little sentence!"

"John, let me start-" Fucking Bane, trying to stop him from making things worse and putting him first and being inexplicably concerned with _him_ instead of the selfish, uncaring monster he's painted in his head.

"No!" He shoves him away. "No, you bastard, don't fucking touch me. You don't deserve to touch me, that's not fair. You don't do that to people. You don't _do_ that to people you _love!_ " His hands start to slide up in his hair, to keep from punching the man in the jaw, then he suddenly covers his mouth. Clutches his skin because if he doesn't he'll fall apart. "You...I honestly thought you were dead this whole time and this whole time you've been here. I told myself there was nothing else that could've made you disappear like that. Right here, eating a-and sleeping and teaching these people how to prepare for...for war and..." His nails dig lines into his skin. " _This whole time you've been right here_."

"I...sent out contacts." He continues, wide-eyed. "I...I tried to call. I went all the way to your...your old hideout. I had to disarm border patrol guards under the cover of night and risk arrest all over again and hide out in the backcountry for days, but I did it _anyway_ because I thought you might be there for some-fucking-reason. I read the news, I do it for undercover work but I tried to see if there was any sign of you in-between and I tried to..." Each word feels like a razorblade in his throat. "I thought you wouldn't do that again after nearly getting blown up. I thought I got _through_ to you!"

"You _did_ get through to me." Bane says, voice whisper soft yet somehow filling up the room. "More than you realize. Listen to me, _please..._ "

"Fuck you. Fuck your listening! You can't do that to me. After losing Reilly, I...no. No." He's backing away. He can feel the old howl of loss building up in him all over again. The one that woke him up from deep sleep more times than he can count and the one that once consumed him on his way to the bus plaza and the one that echoes behind him no matter how hard he runs. "After your last letter...I got over you. I tried to move on. Then you show up like this? You forced me to move on when I didn't even _have_ to."

Barsad and Salim are peering through the half-open door, wearing twin expressions of dismay. Robin doesn't have time for them. He's careening wildly through the last eight months and Bane is the one he's going to crash into.

"Blake-" Salim begins, to everyone's visible shock, and Robin whirls on him in an instant.

"Fuck _you_ , too! In fact, fuck you _both_." He hisses at the pair. "You should have told me where he'd gone. You lied to me. Just like he did. Pretended to do me a favor keeping me covered at the hospital when you were just helping fuck me over in another way. _You_..." His hand shakes when he points at Bane again. "You...said it yourself. You said it, how hard it is for me to let go of the past, how I never really did it all these years, then you just pull this self-serving shit. You called _me_ the martyr." He finally breaks his gaze to glance sidelong around the room, hating everything and every _one_. "...you _bastard_."

Bane is stock still. His breath is stuttering in his throat, more wretched than he's ever seen him, mouth twisted tight with this destroyed look all over his destroyed face, and Robin wants to keep _going_. Properly shove him this time and howl every last day he thought he'd go the rest of his life without seeing him again. But they've done this before. They've fought, they've butted heads, they've come together again. If he wants to make him hurt he has to get his grief across _much_ better than a right hook and a hard cry. Revenge tastes bitter, but at the moment it's the only thing he's hungry for.

So he leaves.

Robin turns and shoves past Barsad and out the front door. Bane only calls after him once.

\--

The day goes by much slower here. Then again, maybe not. There are far less buildings to distract him from the change of the day and the jet lag definitely isn't helping.

He has no idea where he is.

Robin rubs at his neck and glances sourly at the elderly woman that's been waving and calling at him for what seems like the past half hour. Whatever she wants he's _not_ in the mood to entertain, much less talk -- storming throughout the village for some miserable little spot to call his own was a bad idea in hindsight and right now the meager shade of this tree away from civilization is as sure a therapy as any. At least, he wants it to be. It's like the great expanse of the Kazakhstani plains are a greenscreen for his life. Instead of the bright clouds and distant hills he's seeing the first time he met that son-of-a-bitch. A torturous playback he desperately wants to stop.

Blake...he had been prepared to _die_ that day. Every day. Every time he put on the uniform and fixed his hair in the mirror he accepted, as he had hundreds of times before, that the following hours could be his last. He'd been tied up and thrown underground after a basic patrol that suddenly went south. Dizzy from a head-wound and shivering with adrenaline, he was still ready to give his _life_ for his city. He never could've guessed, after all his near-death experiences, he would still had no clue what that entailed.

Showing up like his worst nightmare...and leaving as his worst nightmare. He thought Bane, someone he grew to love and _more_ , was doomed forever to bad dreams. The horrible, all-encompassing, " _What if?_ "

What if Bane had snapped his neck in that cell?

What if Blake had pulled the trigger at the city hall?

What if they never met?

A hot, tight clutch of misery grips him all over. His hand instinctively moves up to rub the side of his neck -- when thoughts of Bane became overwhelming he had attempted to revive the bruises the man left all the way back at the mountain hideout. Sometimes he would push his fingers into them, mimicking the shape of his teeth, then switch to his nails when the marks stubbornly faded anyway. It got to the point the boys had worried he was getting into trouble again, so had to find other ways of meting out depressive lust. Not all of them healthy.

The sweltering breeze pushes through and makes a joke of his temporary hideaway. Thanks to his outburst he forgot to bring his suitcase with him, complete with his cell phone, laptop and any form of contact. Even his shades would've been nice. Fuck, he can't believe he's missing _Gotham_ weather. He's not dressed for the season at all, despite taking a look at the climate beforehand, and he had to keep tugging at his collar to let in the (still humid) air. He wasn't about to wear shorts -- hasn't been his look since he was a courier -- but he might have to give in at this rate.

He's jolted unpleasantly from his thoughts _again_ at another sharp squall. This lady has made it clear she's not going to stop calling him (sounding _well_ and truly fed up now, to boot), so he inwardly admits defeat, gets to his feet with a hefty sigh and makes his slow way back down the hill to see what the hell the fuss is all about. He passes by two men carring a limp sheep between them, who meet his gaze and grin enthusiastically. Dinner, no doubt.

Steam vents from the scattered rooftops and something spicy soon drifts onto the breeze. Now that he's back in the thick of it he can sense the urgent buzz in the air. There's some sort of event happening soon, by the looks of it. Everyone is chipping in, people pushing past him with boxes or calling out orders, and in the bustle he can't catch any of the League members. Looks like he was on his own for now. The old woman's accent is thick, so he can only _just_ make out English in-between the foreign words -- 'friend' and 'eat' and something else, 'happy', maybe. He nods, over and over, trying to appease himself to the place that accepted the League Of Shadows into their home. He may be pissed off, but he wasn't about to indirectly worsen their reputation.

"Here, here." She stresses with a gnarled finger in what appears to be her house, indicating the flour-covered tables in the kitchen and piles of dishes. Guess whatever was going on today he was now apart of. He rolls up his sleeves and silently commits himself to his even _more_ humid surroundings. A few adults are situated in the cramped space, offering him a quick smile before going back to their duties. A lanky little girl with thin hair and bold, hazel eyes stares openly at him, maybe Joel's age or so, earning a sharp retort from the old woman.

' _Talk about first impressions._ ' He thinks, sourly.

Robin is no stranger to hard work, but he's definitely a stranger to _this_ kind. On the plus side, he's a visual learner -- a little pointing and leading by example goes a long way and, before he knows it, he's peeling potatoes, shelling nuts and rolling dough. There's always something new to be done, which he attends to as quickly as possible when she points to the right or up the narrow staircase or out the backdoor. The only reprieve he gets is lifting heavy objects -- the others gesture at his leg, which he doesn't have the vocabulary to tell them it's better than it looks _but_ he really appreciates the effort. At least they're not judging him for it. His arms are screaming after what feels like _hours_ and he puts on the best face he can not to look like he's about to pass out from the heat.

That scrawy girl frequently helps beside him, though she's constantly dropping her ingredients and getting distracted by the laughter of children outside. Judging by the adults' wheedling remarks at her heels she's likely serving out some punishment that gives her more work than the other kids. Poor thing. Robin offers her a sympathetic smile and messes up a few times on purpose to give her something else to do. She's baffled by his sudden incompetence, though soon catches on and scrunches up her nose when he 'drops' his peeler a third time.

That woman he'd seen earlier on his way to Bane's home strolls in after the dough is carried out, chattering animatedly over one shoulder and setting down a basket heavy with produce. She takes one look at the little girl's progress and urges her back outside with a hand on her shoulder -- her long hair isn't down anymore, now wound back in a braid that sways at her waist, and she's wearing a dirty skirt meant for working. The kid promptly waves goodbye to him and is out in a blur of tan arms and legs. Robin turns back to his work to find the local holding out a glass of water. He downs it gratefully -- it's not cold, but one sip makes him realize how little he's eaten _or_ drank today.

"My little cousin, Miriam." She gestures at the still-open door. As if on cue a happy squeal follows somewhere outside his line of sight. "I'm Marat." She adds, a hand out to him. He pats off the worst of the flour and takes it, instantly warmed. A familiar gesture went a long way. "Your name?"

"Robin. It's nice to meet you."

"Sorry my English." She apologizes with an open smile. Her teeth are crooked, but they only add to her casual charm. "I practice a lot, but not, um, many speak English? In town. I practice online."

"I mean, I barely know Kazakh." He scrapes away at his new knowledge, then just holds up a forefinger and thumb for emphasis. "Like...this much."

"A lot, though!" She assures with a laugh, waving a hand and urging his gaze to his work when that old woman snaps and points at a pair of kids trying to sneak goods from the kitchen. "You stay, you help." Marat gives him a sly look. "My grandma. Aiym."

" _Ah_." At that Aiym casts them both a scrutinizing look over one shoulder. He flashes a quick smile before hunching over his work again. Now that the bulk of food is done it's mainly cleaning and picking up any scraps that fell to the floor. Bending down sucks, but so does being yelled at constantly.

"I see you, uh, on the road." Marat offers as a conversation starter, elbows deep in soapy dishwater. He doesn't want to look rude and take _too_ obvious a break, not with everyone putting in 110%, so he quickly starts patting the rest of the flour off the front of his pants before bending down gingerly. "Barsad's friend?"

"Yeah. Are you?" He hands Marat his empty cup, then realizes that question could sound too vague and elaborates, "Are you friends?"

She tilts her head and rolls her eyes to somewhere else in the room. At first he thinks it's sarcasm, but...no, she seems _shy._ Now that's especially strange, since he's known her for all of fifteen minutes and she seems the furthest thing from shy. He suddenly forgets about how hot it is. _Someone_ might have a crush. Judging by Barsad's reaction at the sight of her...it might even be mutual. He's starting to feel a little delighted by this observation as he tosses shells and potato skins into the nearby bin, though it fizzles out quickly at her next question.

"Behnam and you?" She puffs out a strand of hair from her face, her smile crooked and intrigued. "Good friends?"

Robin swallows hard and tries to put on a smile, but it makes his face shake. He looks back down at his work to distract from another meltdown, but the floor's about as spotless as it's going to get. Marat's gaze is sharp, still curious, but she seems to sense his frustration and changes the subject to school. She wants to study in the city, but doesn't have enough money to go to one of the big universities. She states she'll try for a smaller college in the country -- although she's eager to travel she admits, wistful but resolute, that she has family that needs to be taken care of, especially the 'stubborn old ones'.

"You don't hold back, do you?" He asks, casting a faux-worried glance at the elders hard at work chopping wood and grinding meal not a few feet away. A smoky scent is filling the air, mouthwatering in its intensity. No doubt the sheep he saw earlier.

"Little English here. No worries." She winks. Robin snorts into the corner of his elbow and _still_ manages to get flour in his hair. "Kids?"

"Twenty-seven." He states, swelling up with both pride and what is probably starting to surface as the early onset of homesickness. Marat's dark eyes go round, then _extremely_ narrow. Robin grins. "Yes, I mean it, twenty-seven. Want me to name them?"

He's sure he loses her a little as he rambles about each boy at length, but the interest in her eyes never wanes. The little girl returns halfway through and tries to sneak what appears to be a hazelnut treat, fresh out of the oven just out of his line of sight -- while he pretends not to notice Marat will have _none_ of it, giving her hand a light swat and rattling off a sentence he can't follow for the life of him. He can harbor a few guesses, though, and fondly thinks of the way Joel will still shoo him out of the kitchen while working on his next culinary masterpiece.

" _Miriam_." He hears her say again. It seems she's giving her directions, because the girl tugs on his shirt with a dirty hand and beckons him to follow, a fresh scowl pinching her brow. Either the poor kid has been deemed too much of a nuisance _elsewhere_ and is being given another task to do or is just not nearly as good as playing hooky as her peers.

They jog through the village, careful not to bump into people and even more careful not to jostle the goats arrogantly lazing around wherever they feel like it. He remembers Barsad saying something about wolves and he can't help but glance out into the open plains once they start to leave the bulk of the houses behind, though he'd no doubt see them coming _long_ before it'd be a problem. At least the sheepdog would have some clout, there. The huge creature is more bothered by the flies buzzing around its ears, flicking its head once in a while as it rests beneath the shade of a wooden shed.

There's just a smattering of houses on the far hill. Not too far away from where Bane was staying. By the time they arrive his bad hip is howling, his heart ten times worse, but he puts on his most amicable smile when they're greeted by the residents.

"Ouch." Miriam observes as they make their way down the crooked dirt path toward the town's cluster of lights and smoke. Her English is limited, but the worry crumpling her chin communicates plenty.

"Yeah." He chuckles in agreement. "Ouch."

She reaches out to touch his hip, curious as a cat, then freezes in place.

"What?" He asks, wincing as he turns to better follow her line of sight. "What is it-"

Three men. They must have shown up sometime between grabbing the supplies and heading down the hill, because he hadn't heard a thing.

Their clothes and stance are immediately apparent. They're not from around here. They're bundled too heavily to be random hikers, too arrogant even for tourists, and the air they set off already has his gut churning with unease. Robin puts a protective hand on her shoulder. Miriam looks up at him in alarm, though not at the touch -- no, she's pressing against his leg and watching the men with a look that's far too knowing. They must be some of the 'overseers' Barsad was talking about earlier.

"Hey! You visiting, man?" One with a thick mustache asks, accent already thick in just the a few words. Thankfully, some things were universal.

"Yeah." Robin lifts his chin and watches them coolly. "I am."

They all nod absently, one after another, smiles not reaching their eyes. Like vultures they're shifting closer. Sizing him up. Robin couldn't bring his boot knife on the plane, nor his pole, but his best tools have always been his mind and his fists. Like shuffling the pieces of a puzzle into place he takes note of the proximity of the town behind him, the open space around them and the likelihood of the girl being able to get enough distance in the span of a punch to the right man's sternum and an elbow to the middle man's jaw. He might have to play up his bad hip -- not too hard with it feeling like it's about to fall off -- and that surprise could make them sloppy.

One is visibly armed. The other two he's not sure. Nothing like odd chances to top off a shit day.

"You guys visiting, too?" He asks, balancing just so on the balls of his feet but otherwise giving no indication what he's going to do next. "Nice place."

Just like that...they waver. The man on the left glances sidelong at his peers. The other two have abruptly stopped inching into their personal space. It's as subtle as a shift in the breeze, but the stench of cowardice is _staggering_. These weren't fighters. No, these were part-time schoolyard bullies. He's outnumbered three-to-one -- with a little girl to look after -- but, to their _very_ measly credit, they've figured out he doesn't go down easy.

That he would kill them all if he had to.

"...Yeah. Very nice, very nice." The original speaker says, tilting his chin at the others in a silent gesture to back off. They shuffle back, then start to make their way up the path. Robin watches them until they're at a safe enough distance, then waits just a little longer until he can barely make out their silhouettes against the horizon.

Miriam doesn't let go of his hand. Even when they get back to the village.

A hush falls over the room as the girl no doubtedly shares everything that transpired. Robin shifts uncomfortably in the doorway and tries to look casual, even though his bones are still _screaming_ with the injustice that could've happened if he hadn't accompanied her. Barsad had told him about many of the residents here being forced into horrible working conditions and he wouldn't need to bet money children had been involved at some point. His face grows hot when everyone looks to him with varying degrees of shock and a...painful sort of appreciation. Marat's hand is still held fast over her mouth, even as she urges Miriam into a tight hug with the other.

He jerks out of his reverie when Aiym touches his arm. He half-expects another favor, is already relaxing his shoulders to let her know he's listening...but, no. She's handing him a small cloth bag. Judging by the bumpy outline they're more of those little hazelnut treats. He doesn't even bother with the polite refusal schtick. Not with the way her eyes are glistening with hasty tears.

' _I know what it's like to think a kid won't make it back home._ ' He thinks as he accepts it with a small smile and tries one. ' _Never gets less scary._ '

He'd been sweating in the close quarters and aching after hours of non-stop standing and washing, but he still slows down on his way back. Bane's face -- raw as a burn and completely pulled apart by what he said -- keeps flashing in his mind with every sore, halting step. His right hip and leg may have recovered well, all things considered, but they still didn't handle the strain of the day nearly as well as his other side and he still has no choice but to rest every few minutes. By the time he's left the tiny plaza and made it back to the upper hills he knows he looks a mess. A group of adolescent boys look curiously at him, their chatter hitching when he nears.

"Uh, hey." He glances around once more, in case he missed a friendly face. "Um, do you know where Bane-"

He snaps his mouth shut. Right, he wasn't _known_ as Bane here. They call him Behnam. God, he'd been so busy screaming his head off he failed to internalize these little details. The kids need no reminder who he is or what he wants, though, and just wave him over. He's lead into a refurbished backyard, wide and bare save for a wooden fence and the occasional potted plant. A few stray cats lounge in patches of shade just outside the oval, ears crooked lazily at the hubbub. Adults of varying ages, some young and some very old, are in the middle of the space doing drills. They move in a mirror image, slowly and carefully extending their arms and angling their legs and easing out into different stances.

Bane, as tall and stout as he ever was, is watching with his hands folded behind his back. He seems content to let them try different stances or stretches as they go. One of the kids even attempts to do a handstand, succeeding for a few shaky moments before toppling over into the dirt with a squawk. It's soft, soft enough to be confused for a cough, but he thinks he hears Bane laugh.

The casual drills eventually give way to hard practice. The first match is short. The boy doesn't hold back, a flurry of arms and legs, and Bane does little more than sidestep and block until they're reduced to slumping down onto the dirt and panting. Robin remembers how he'd admonished his impulsivity their very first meeting, back when he thought the guy little more than a flashy terrorist, and _again_ when they'd sparred in the surrounding Gotham forest for practice. He thinks maybe he should sample a few of the treats while he's sitting down, but the show before him is filling him up in a different way.

Encouraging cheers bray from all corners, but the kid looks entirely spent, gratefully accepting Bane's outstretched palm and getting back to his feet in happy defeat. Bane then calls out a command. It seems the session is over, anyway. All of the trainees bow respectfully, which Bane returns in the middle of stretching his neck, and he accepts a cool rag from one of the adults with an appreciative smile.

Then he turns his way. Robin's feels the signature flip-flop to his stomach when he goes from anonymous bystander to known.

His shirt collar is dark with the day's heat. The sheen on his skin bounces the light back and, for a heartwrenching moment, he can taste the man's musk on his tongue as vividly as the hazelnut treats. Bane holds his gaze solemnly, the others shuffling past him and muttering excitedly to each other among the leftover dust of practice...then just nods and turns and makes his way back inside, mopping sweat off the back of his scarred neck.

' _I'll apologize. Just be honest and apologize. Nothing complicated._ ' He tells himself resolutely as he trails after. ' _Hopefully it'll be enough after that shitshow._ '

The small house smells both musty and fresh, somehow. Very...lived-in. Now that it's more of a permanent (or, well, semi-permanent) abode even more of Bane's personality is allowed to shine through -- it's not just boxes of weapons and sleeping bags now, but rolled up blankets, tiny potted plants and neatly arranged bookshelves. There are _still_ weapons, though -- including a crudely carved stone knife hanging from a thin string by the doorframe -- and he's sure a few are carefully hidden where only he can find. Robin's eyes instantly hone in on the novel he gave him all those months back when he was bedridden. His heart swells when he sees a bookmark right in the middle. A re-read.

He finds the mercenary in his room, by his bedside and in front of an old wooden drawer. He's meticulously adjusting what seems to be a new back brace, each movement a stiff and careful twitch. Robin watches as he deliberately pauses before reaching down to shuffle through another drawer, pulling out different belts. If he thought he hunched a little more before, it's _much_ more apparent now -- every day of recovery is like a knapsack over his shoulder. Without the analgesic as a supplement to his air it's a wonder he can even stand at all. Now that the grief has died down Robin learns through a visual montage everything that's happened since he's away.

He opens his mouth to say, " _Hey_." Maybe, " _Got you something_." Particularly, and most importantly, " _I shouldn't have run out on you like that or said any of that stupid, horrible shit_." Instead there's silence, then some _other_ noise he makes that has Bane eventually glancing over his shoulder, unhurried and unsurprised.

"...A shame you didn't join us." He murmurs, turning back around and pushing the drawer shut. "They could have learned a lot from you." He pauses, then adds, "That said, some already did. I was told what you did. Looking after Miriam out there."

Damn. Word traveled fast. "They didn't try anything." Robin stresses, unnecessarily, a familiar curl of anger flickering in his chest. If they _had_...

"No, I don't imagine they would. Not if they wanted to leave the village still drawing breath." Bane sounds as calm as ever, but he recognizes the wrath in his voice. It was that tone he got when someone's life was in his hands, whether they knew it or not. Then, like an afterthought, it vanishes. "...How is your leg?"

"It's...well, it hurts like hell, but I just need to keep off it for a bit." He remembers how concerned he'd been all the way back in the Gotham forest. Nostalgia flickers in Bane's eyes -- he remembers it, too.

"Do you have a place to stay?" He continues.

"Yeah. It's, uh, back in Astana."

"A long way. You can rest here if you like." He looks over his shoulder again and raises his eyebrows mildly. "Cheaper."

Cheaper. As if that's why he would want to stay _here_. He opens his mouth to quip that little comment away but nothing except useless air comes out. Bane latches the brace into place, letting out a low _hum_ as he gathers his thoughts, and Robin never knew a simple sound could make him hurt so _much_.

"You are here now. Would you hear the rest of my letter?" He follows this sentence up quickly. "If you want."

"Yeah." His voice finally comes back to him. "Yeah. I'd hear anything you have to say."

It's a complete 180 from his reaction earlier. It's what _he_ had said back at the mountains, when Bane had bared his soul and Robin had swiftly corrected him with old family wisdom. He knows he's being hypocritical, or wishy-washy, or whatever. He doesn't care. Bane is completely silent, though. The scars on his mouth twitch as he comes up with what are no doubt painful words, too painful to be pushed out into the open air. A note of overdue sympathy sings in Robin's mind. The least he can do is give him a place to start.

"Why didn't you come back?"

Bane's eyes flick up to lock with his, weary and resolute.

"Because I was...barely a man." Then his gray gaze is drooping to the floor, as if it's too heavy to hold up. "Less than...an animal. I sometimes thought myself a wraith, neither living nor dying. At the whim of my addiction, my grief, they were inexorable. Withdrawal is savage enough without dancing with despair and...there was hardly a day I wasn't in agony. It was...months...before I could function on my own as I used to. Not quite as I used to, not truly, but..." He heaves out a rocky sigh and clicks on the last belt. It's completely surreal to hear him pause so many times, even as his words remain as delicately chosen as ever. "Barsad would admonish me for feeling ashamed."

"Do you...still use analgesic?" Robin asks, feeling his way around the man's careful confession. Going cold turkey was a bad option for anyone (he'd tried it with smoking twice and _failed_ twice), but considering just how long he'd been dependent on it and for such a severe injury...

"In small amounts. On-and-off with other, gentler remedies to circumvent acclimation." Bane responds, to his relief. "I have had to wean myself carefully."

"Will you see a doctor for your back? A neurosurgeon, maybe?" Robin feels the line drawn in the sand instantly when Bane's shoulders stiffen.

"...I have considered it." He says, brusque tone suggesting he switch topics for now. _Still_ stubborn, God. Robin's fists clench instinctively and, like a sixth sense, the man adds, "It is a... _sensitive_ matter. One I am giving deep thought, I assure you. What else did Barsad tell you?"

"...What the League's been doing all this time." Robin starts to relax again, though only just. He's still quivering on an emotional precipice, any movement in any direction threatening a serious fall. "A basic overview. Where you've been, how you're helping the people here, your goals for the future. As much as he could squeeze in the span of a walk."

"And what have _you_ been up to?" Bane asks, shifting the conversation to him with a throaty timber. "...All this time?"

A long story. So he starts from the beginning. Selina Kyle giving him one more chance at using the clean slate before she left Gotham with Harleen. The weeks he spent carefully re-arranging his life so that he could feasibly go 'missing' and actually live his life without constant fear of arrest. It was a delicately maintained secret -- one his friends _and_ his boys had to keep tight-lipped about.

"That is quite a generous gift from our honorable cat burglar." Bane notes, though he doesn't sound _entirely_ surprised. More  pleased.

"She's always been generous, really." Robin shrugs. "Just roundabout about it."

He tells him how Gotham is thinking of banning lockdown permanently and Gordon is _finally_ making good use of his influence to drain resources from local law enforcement, one excessive bill and power-hungry law at a time. He tells him about working with Victor and Barbara, the tech genius and the part-time Batgirl, part-time future mayor trying to change things for the better. Bane listens patiently, hanging on his every word, and a spark of interest lights up in his eyes when Robin gets to the topic of his boys.

He feels that old bitterness kicking up again -- telling him the man doesn't deserve to know about Tiya's new family or Finn's possible internship -- but he beats it down. Tells him anyway. After what he's heard from him so far...they were both still just scratching the surface here. Shit, he still need to find out what happened to...

"Talia." 'Miranda Tate' was still stated missing in the news when he checked a few months ago, but that meant nothing when Talia al Ghul was descended from the League Of Shadows. He's always felt that quiet dread she was still out there, ready to enact revenge on him or pick up where she left off in Gotham years down the road with him none the wiser. "...where is she?"

"Dead."

Robin's throat goes dry as a bone. He blinks a few times, then shakes his head, unbelieving.

"Wait...wait, dead? H-How? _Who-_ "

"I killed her."

Just like that...he's speechless again. The words don't really register, not with what he knows and what he's _seen_ the man do in her name, but Bane just keeps looking at him with this...hollow look in his eyes. Like the pain is entirely beyond even his threshold. He stares at him, dead silent and unmoving, until he has no choice but to accept it at face value. A strange buzzing starts in his ears. Questions upon questions upon questions. Mostly just shock that he'd gone through a decision like this _alone_ , piling on the punishment when there was no _need_ to. But he swallows them back. Bane mentioned in his second letter (and last) that he didn't know how to ask for mercy. He could give it without prompting.

"...Lael is at a foster home in Uzbekistan." His voice wavers, right alongside his gaze, staring out into the still-green plains. "A good one."

"Lael...?"

"I named her after her grandmother."

Robin just stares. Right. Right, she was pregnant. ...Fuck. He never would've guessed. He never would have guessed _any_ of this.

"...Ah. I never told you." He says, a dawning realization growing in his voice. "The rope."

Right. Bane mentioned how the rope 'dangled without him'. He'd thought it was a metaphor for what he was struggling with.

"The pit, my home for as long as I'd known any, bore a single rope. The only means of escape outside of digging one's fingers into unforgiving stone...but just as treacherous. It was never high enough, John. Many died trying. The only way for one to leave was _without_ it, fueled by adrenaline and the omnipresent fear of death." Bane's gaze goes vacant, just shy of haunted, like he's back there again. "I couldn't...I couldn't rely on you like a _crutch_. I couldn't transform you into a replacement for my decades-long obsessive, unhealthy love. I had to know that I could live without you. That was the plan, right from the very start, until suicidal ideation reared its head and took my life for its own."

A shadow falls over his face as he dips his head.

"I was going to tell you this...when I found the words."

He wants to reach out to him, but he just feels numb from head-to-toe. Bane meant to tell him all along. He just couldn't.

"Recovery from this venom in my veins necessitated I not just remove a dangerous person from this world..." He shudders, like the past eight months is already back to haunt him. "...but to let others _go_ , in ways I never entertained possible. I handed over responsibility of the pit to another. I let a select few free. Even Yaakov." He doesn't know who Yaakov is, but the tone in his voice suggests another long grudge. Maybe one as vicious as the one he had for Bruce. "Yet redemption doesn't get easier with practice. Letting go of everything else..."

"...Bruce?" Robin manages, the implication of where, what and _how_ packed into that single syllable. Bane lifts his chin and says:

"I don't know."

"...Shit." That made two of them.

"All this...it was almost too much." Bane slides a hand along his head, then presses it against the back of his neck. "Or, rather, it was. A world without Talia...it wasn't something I'd experienced before. Not above the pit. I had known it could happen, death has ever been an omnipresent presence in our lives...but this was a concept easier said than done. Food didn't taste the same. Sleep evaded me. I became ill, over and over and over again. After a point I didn't know if I would survive myself. I couldn't...do that to you. Return to you, after all was said and done, only to waste away before your very eyes." The gray in his eyes glistens. "I couldn't have you lose me twice."

Robin slowly closes his eyes. They're on one of Gotham's docks, surrounded by a long fog and talking about themselves openly for the first time. He'd learned about his relationship with the woman that tried to murder him in cold blood. Where she came from. Where _he_ came from. These two wounded souls, both with plans for Gotham that couldn't possibly be more different from each other.

" _At least you escaped. Got the opportunity for something better."_

" _I never escaped."_

"...I'm so _sorry_. I'm sorry I said all that shit to you. That's..." He doesn't see Bane's expression. He can't really see much at all. His mind, his _vision_ , is a blur and he's just one breath away from bursting. Robin's hands shake treacherously, threatening to drop the folded package to the floor and spill Aiym's generosity all over the place. A wet spot blooms dark into the cloth. Then two more. Then too many to count. "I didn't...I _just_..." His chest is heaving like billows, faster and faster and _faster_ , until the words are blowing out in a messy rush. "...didn't know what to _do_. I didn't know if I...Bane, I...I just missed you so _much_ -"

"Oh, John." Bane reaches out as if to keep him from spilling all over the floor, hands gripping his shoulders and his head bowed. He's weeping. _Weeping_. Tears coursing full tilt down his face and streaking lines over the scarred flesh. For the second time today he almost doesn't recognize him. "There wasn't a day."

God. If he said there was? He'd be lying. A detective never left anything half-finished. A loose end, as far as he'd always been concerned, was just a sign a person wasn't digging hard enough. He'd always wondered what could've happened all these months, even as he added another mask to his collection and 'moved on'. If Bane had been killed. If he'd committed suicide. If he'd doomed himself to wandering the Earth until old age or illness got to him. He'd wondered and theorized and dreamt and figured he would keep doing so for the rest of his natural life.

"I...I knew you had to overcome addiction and...mental health shit and..." He heaves into his chest. "Then Talia. Then _Talia_. Fuck. You've gone through so much shit and I just...threw it all in your _face..._ "

"No." He pulls back, just enough so he can hold his gaze, and whispers, fervently. "No, no, there wasn't a day I didn't imagine waking up to you beside me. You, with all your kindness _and_ rage. There wasn't a _day_."

"But-"

" _Every day_." He grips his shoulders tighter. Physically begging him to understand. "Every day."

When he just nods, numbly, Bane lets out a sound, choked and _relieved_ and grateful, and presses his scarred lips to his cheek. Holds it in a lingering, aching pressure. Robin's face twists. He'll never understand how his silence can say so much.

The incoming evening dips low shadows across the room. It's time to go out, but they're a mess. Robin still has no sense of time here, definitely not after going over eight months worth of hassle in an hour (or two), definitely _not_ after bawling what feels like his entire chest cavity out into the man's collarbone. He manages to laugh at the rather impressive stain he's left on Bane's shirt and tries to smudge the worst of it off with his forearm. Bane returns his sentiment with a wet chuckle of his own, mopping at his face with the heel of his palm, then reaching out and thumbing away leftovers under Robin's eyes. Eventually they both consider it a lost cause and make their way to the washroom.

"...You have flour in your hair." Bane notes, reaching up to ruffle it out. Robin coughs out a laugh, still sounding clipped from their crying session.

"Oh, uh, yeah. Helped Marat and her grandma with some cooking." His skin is shivering at that tiny contact, keenly recalling how much Bane loved to move his fingers through his hair and rub his scalp, but that fondness is scraped raw and tender. He can't handle it right now. He pulls away (as surreptitiously as possible) and focuses on washing his face thoroughly, wincing at the cold bite of water on the now-sensitive skin. "They seem to have a big event planned?"

"Yes. A ceremony to celebrate the change of the season." Bane responds -- it's a cramped bathroom and together they almost fill the little hole in the wall. "Not unlike your New Year's, though with a few differences. It's a community gathering that reflects on the past and the future at the beginning of the year and toward the end. This will actually be my second attendance."

They graduate to the living room. Robin changes into a fresh long-sleeved shirt and jeans, breathing in the cleaner scent with weary relief. Bane rolls on a dark brown top, tucking it into his jeans over his brace, then pulls on a thin overcoat. The only clothes he recognizes are his worn, brown hiking boots. Now that he has the presence of mind to look elsewhere he notices the man's sheepskin coat hung up by the door. Right next to his dark biker jacket, scuffed with wear. Like they're ordinary pieces of clothing that haven't been recreated in goodness knows how many illustrations, satirical comics and propaganda.

Bane reaches for his arm somewhere in-between his wandering thoughts and he instantly stiffens. Robin still has a thousand questions, but his brain is struggling to catch up with all that's transpired. His heart even more so. The man takes this hesitation, however, for something else.

"...You have someone else." Not quite a question, not quite a statement.

"What? No, I..." He tries to form words around the weary numbness that's settled into his brain. "No, I mean, I've dated...on-and-off...but nothing serious." Bane's expression is carefully neutral, but Robin can hone in on the resigned acceptance in his eyes like a sniper's scope. "Wait. Listen. It's just...we've built entirely new lives countries away from each other. I didn't even know that was the case on your end. I just...I don't know what to do with all this yet." He squares his shoulders resolutely. They had lost ground to make up for. One question at a time. "Do _you_ have someone else?"

"No." His gaze flicks away, but there's nothing guilty about it. If anything he looks a bit at a loss. "I had a few express interest in me...but I was in no state to follow through."

"Just a few?" He jokes, weakly, and Bane says nothing as he pulls up the collar of his jacket. Already inscrutable. "Would you have, if you could?"

"Not until I knew where we stood."

Now Robin finds himself trying to steel the emotion from his face, frozen halfway in-between rolling his gray top over his head. He waited all this time? Deprived himself of a potentially good thing on a _maybe?_ Shit, even he'd given into loneliness and sought out a little company (though guilt always chewed him up the night after). A wane smile twitches Bane's mouth and he pulls open the door. After grabbing his coat and checking his face for remaining wet spots he follows him outside.

"...It was my fault for not reaching out to you." He pushes hands into his pockets and turns toward the winding slope, breathing in the cooling breeze that floats their way. "I have no regrets."

' _But I do_.' Robin thinks, miserably, as Bane starts walking. ' _God, I always do_.'

Plumes of smoke float up into the evening orange. A swell of voices rise up somewhere down the hill, a hearty round of laughter following. The man is far along the path now, the low sun barely breaking over his broad shoulders, and Robin just stares at his retreating back, terrified. He's terrified of reaching out and having him vanish, all over again, somehow. Vanish physically. Vanish into his work, his new community and new _life_. It would be easier to leave everything as is. Take the blessing that he was alive and well, hit the plane early and go back to Gotham with the hole in his chest hastily patched back up.

But he didn't take the easy way out. It was a conviction he committed to a _long_ time ago and this sudden burst of cowardice itches like an ill-fitting pair of jeans. But everything was just so damn...hard. His stamina just isn't what it used to be. This rush of conflicting thoughts leaves him feeling unsteady and weak. When he looks up from the ground to Bane again, halfway turned and watching him with a knot on his brow, he knows the man would catch him if he fell.

And he would do the same for him.

"John?"

He waits until he catches up, then casts a worried eye back to him from time-to-time as they near the celebration. The smoke has grown thicker, but it's nothing like the sour city he left behind. It's spicy and hot, signaling good food and good times just around the corner. It seems like the entire village has joined in, with dozens of people already clustered together and chatting animatedly when they move past the rickety wooden fence. If anything there are _more_ than he remembers -- probably family and friends visiting from the city, by the looks of it. Visitors or residents, everyone steals glances their way. Likely wondering what captured their mysterious benefactor's attention. His face grows hot. Scrutiny hasn't felt good for a while.

"There is nothing you need to rush." Bane murmurs as they work their way through the crowd and into the makeshift plaza, already glowing warm with the massive fire pit in the middle. "I had taken my time to recover. It would only be fair." There might be hope in his voice. Just a little. Robin, in spite of himself, feels the pain of the day softening to a warm, happy ache. It still feels overly tender, though, like a thumb pressed into a pulled muscle. When in doubt, default to humor.

"Well, I'm an impatient shit." He plucks at his chin idly, worrying at the short hair in an attempt to be preoccupied early. "Don't get too used to waiting."

It's still a little hard to tell with the scars, especially out of the corner of his eye, but he thinks he sees Bane smile.

The hodgepodge of lanterns and candles set up on tables or chairs makes him feel like he's surrounded by fireflies -- he'd only ever seen them once, when his mother and father took him out camping. He'd been so young, yet the memory feels as fresh as yesterday. Once in a while a relative or friend or friend of a friend will go up to Robin and thank him, in halting English or very basic Kazakh, for what he did for Miriam. Eventually he's so embarrassed he starts looking for somewhere to hide in plain sight.

Barsad, with his signature supernatural timing, shows up not a moment too soon.

"More appreciation here than you got in Gotham." He notes as he settles beside him. His hair is freshly washed and he's changed into a casual t-shirt. "Hm?"

"Yeah. It's weird." Robin admits. "Not _unwelcome_ , but..."

"No, I understand. It's why I left my job all those years back. My family." Barsad says, rubbing his chin. Despite being the new leader of the League the shadows underneath his eyes are less pronounced. A little strange, considering he had _more_ responsibility, not less. He wonders if the relatively more peaceful environment has anything to do with it. "Commemoration brings back memories of doing things for the wrong reasons, doesn't it?"

"Yeah. It does." Robin frowns sympathetically. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Barsad says, not unkindly. "I made my decision."

New families. Old families. He thinks of his own as he stares at Barsad's wistful face. Amir was probably wrapping up that last piece in his portfolio, his most ambitious yet. Jay had his tryouts today. Last one of the season and he was already heads and shoulders above his peers. ...Sheesh. He's already feeling a little homesick and he hasn't even been out of Gotham for a week.

"Oh. Uh..." He snaps his fingers, trying to pull her name out of the crazy haze of the day. "Marat, right. Marat mentioned you."

"Did she, now?" Barsad asks, all casual politeness, but something in his expression seems to unfurl. Robin grins and nudges him.

"She's very nice. Great sense of humor." The man rolls his eyes and sips his drink, but his mouth is curving at the corners. It doesn't escape his notice he started scanning the crowd at the mention of her name. Robin makes a mental note to call Marat over if he sees her. With her hair it'll be an easy feat. Everyone's faces, theirs included, turns when an older woman stands in front of the fire and whistles for everyone's attention.

"Hey." He whispers, quickly, before he gets swept away into the rest of the day. "I'm sorry for snapping at you like that."

"...You're fine." Barsad responds, finishing the rest of his drink and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "All in all, I'm surprised he made it out without a black eye."

Robin scoffs, lightly enough, but he's _pretty_ sure he left something much worse in the man's psyche. Suddenly miserable he tries to catch whatever Kazakh he can as the woman speaks. Barsad must see the blank comprehension in his eyes, because he does him another solid without prompting and starts translating.

"These villagers will speak in front of the community about the year." The man murmurs sidelong to him. "Good things. Bad things. Their hopes for the future."

Barsad leans over and gives him a rough translation as each one steps up in front of the fire. Their stories are touching, hardly more than a minute or two long, but everyone bares their soul to the audience without a hint of nervousness. Aiym talks about her grandchildren and how much she hopes they'll have a year less arduous than her own. Marat admits it's been one of her most difficult years yet, juggling school and traveling back-and-forth between the city and the village, but she's also the most optimistic. Barsad's eyes follow her well after she's walked away from the fire.

Bane walks up and nods to the first woman that spoke, then gestures widely with one hand. He may be without his mask, his coat or his armor, but some things never changed.

His speech is a little longer, if only because he's addressing multiple people as he details the ups and downs of his own almost-year -- while he doesn't mention Talia, or Bruce, he's otherwise more vulnerable than he's ever seen him in front of others. Talking about his chronic pain, his isolation. Robin reads the histories on the faces of everyone as they listen. There's hope in the eyes of a young woman. A deep respect in the eyes of another man. Even the more stoic ones lean forward with rapt attention. Barsad had noted he was still earning people's trust, as only a stranger in a damaged town could, but it couldn't be more clear he was well on his way.

One in particular -- the village doctor, Barsad tells him -- Bane bows his head to before concluding.

"'I once thought freedom could be given. You all gave me the time and space I needed to confront this lie. To crack the surface and unearth the truth buried deep in my soul.'" Barsad translates, eyes starting to shine in the firelight. Robin thinks about all the hard nights he must have seen firsthand. "'Your patience is a gift. One I can only hope to repay.'"

Then it's his turn.

Robin can't remember _any_ time public speaking made him nervous, but his brain decides then and there to crap out. Apparently he used up all his speech tokens throwing vitriol at a man he loved for struggling through trauma he could only _dream_ about. Guilt builds up, slow and hot. He forces himself to take in a few long, deep breaths. There's no impatience on anyone's faces. If anything they seem extra curious, leaning forward with elbows on their knees or arms crossed patiently.

"Well...this was one of the worst years of my life." He starts. While he can't catch any of the words, he can sense the sympathy in the murmur that ripples around him. "It was also one of the best. I'm still not sure what to think of that, but a good friend of mine, my uncle, he...he told me to never be suspicious of my blessings." A few chuckle at that. He smiles in response, though his gaze can't help but drift to Bane. The man is standing tall by the fire's orange glow, the sky around him rapidly dimming to a smoky blue just light enough to make out the rivets on his face. "There's a lot I could go into, but...honestly? I'm just glad to still be drawing breath. Glad to be here. Now is good enough."

He takes a moment to scan the crowd again. Marat leaning forward on her knees with an empathetic bent to her brow. Miriam sitting to attention with a few stolen treats knobbling her dress pockets. The League members, Khalil and Salim and Anarosa and some with names he's only just learned, nodding solemnly, yet smiling with their eyes.

"...To second chances." Robin finishes, looking sidelong at Bane, then raising his glass in what he hopes is a universal toast. Barsad murmurs his short response without hesitation.

"...To the future." Bane whispers. He holds his glass out, too, and everyone lifts theirs in kind.

With that, the celebration is underway. Glasses are refilled and a guitar starts up somewhere to his right, twanging and echoing to the eager chatter of the children. The food is hearty and delicious -- freshly grilled mutton wrapped in the tortillas he helped make with sides of fat onions, white cheeses and a thick, dark sauce he can't name. There are heaping piles of rice, small dumpling towers and fried potatoes placed in-between platters of tomatoes on long, wooden tables. Robin realizes after a few delectable bites he's been living on instant food a little _too_ often lately.

It's nice chatting with the League members, all of whom act like it hasn't been nearly a year since they've encountered each other. Turns out Khalil played a major part in the impressive spread, which he takes great care to congratulate him on.

"Once Food Guy, always Food Guy, right?" He says with a grin. The man doesn't even bother with a comeback, just pulling out his cigar and reaching over to flick ash onto his plate. Robin holds it out of the way just in time, though not without flipping him off with his free hand.

"Still the Gotham detective, huh?" Khalil responds. A few of the other League members, dressed in plainsclothes yet as easy to spot as stars in the sky, raise their glasses to him in another toast. "Batgirl and Nightwing, picking up Batman's pieces?"

Robin returns the gesture and hopes his smile doesn't come off as too self-conscious. Dear _God_ , these guys were well-informed. He only got his nickname a month ago.

Salim finds him easily, quipping about his 'bareface', and Robin debates how easy it'd be to arm-wrestle him with a drink in hand.

"Is Barbara...um." He eventually says, rubbing his curls and furrowing his brow at the ground. His shoulders are drawn back and already steeled for disappointment. "She is wonderful, very, and I don't want to...you know."

Phew, this man was in for a _doozy_. Robin hands him his phone. "I'll let you two chat."

It's early morning in Gotham, which means Barbara is definitely up and getting ready for a long day of either interning or campaigning. Reception in the village is still a little finicky, and the feed cuts off twice, but every time it hooks up again they're just as delighted to reunite as they were the first time. Robin still hasn't told him Barbara hasn't dated since they met and has become surreptitiously known as 'the friendliest ice queen in Gotham' because of how often she turns down date proposals. That's something she can surprise Salim with later.

The wine is tangy and very sweet, a little too sweet for his tastes, and he eventually swaps it out for a glass of homebrewed vodka. The combined soreness in his hip, legs and what's beginning to turn into tension in his lower back starts to abate with every slow sip and soon he's feeling what _should've_ been there at the hotel room. Robin eventually shifts away from the bulk of the crowd to lounge against the clay wall of one of the nearby houses. He's invited over to dance twice and twice he lets them down easy, padding out his basic Kazakh with hand gestures and a smile. He wasn't feeling up to moving, which was just as well, since he was _also_ born with two left feet.

' _Bane's long-lost boyfriend can't dance?_ ' He thinks to himself with a snort, imagining what the villagers might say amongst themselves. ' _How'd you two even hook up?_ '

The song is beautiful, though. He bobs his head in tune to the rhythm, somehow chaotic and simple, and watches happily as everyone organically shifts through their dance partners. Miriam's hands are dwarfed in Bane's as they shuffle beside the fire. At one point she stands on top of his feet and squeals as he effortlessly moves her around with short, mincing steps. Robin can't help but gape -- he remembers the man's self-conscious commentary on his ability to be around children. As far as he was concerned, it was the very definition of a baseless fear.

When the folk ditty switches to a more lively jaunt Bane gently urges the girl to dance with someone her own height, motioning to his back to further his point. She scampers past Barsad and Marat, both standing by the fire and in deep conversation. The man's smile is small and restrained as it always is, but something lights up in his eyes every time she throws her head back and laughs. Whether it's a passing interest or something deeper, he hopes the new League leader opens himself up enough to follow through. He's long overdue on some moments of peace.

Robin's heart leaps happily into his throat when Bane makes his way over to him. He's been away for just an hour, but it already feels like another lifetime.

"So." He grunts as he sits next to him, eyes lidded lazy from the alcohol held loosely between his fingers. "You are playing the wallflower."

"Come on. Barsad can't translate for me all night." Robin savors another sip and catches a spare drop on the back of his thumb. He doesn't miss Bane's dark eyes immediately following the movement. "Though he's damn good at it. Maybe he could teach me."

"Fortunately for you, dance is a universal language." His skin is all but glowing in the firelight. He was pretty pale when they first met, but the olive tone is more stark now, no doubt a flush leftover by constant exposure to a new sun and new obligations. Robin thinks about how he might not have seen that if he stayed in Gotham. There's a metaphor there, probably, but his mind is instead preoccupied with a cheeky comeback.

"I thought _math_ was the universal language."

"Indefinite article, John. Which means you can impress me with calculus as well as fancy footwork."

It's that deja vu again. It's been stronger ever since he became one of Crane's many toxin victims, but he brushes it aside with little effort. The real deal is in front of him now, gazing at him in the soft cast of evening with an expression that fills him up to the brim. A grin slowly spreads on Robin's face, wide and honest, and Bane slowly smiles back, loose and easy. There's still a little caution between them, but it's as faint as a cobweb, hardly more than a leftover and all the more wonderful for it. Nothing will be exactly like it used to, but that was fine. More than fine. They could...

Their attention is momentarily turned when a kid takes a hard tumble trying to mimic the adults. Both he and Bane start to lean up out of concern, but they hop back to their feet in less than a second, giggling wildly, and like a pair of magnets their gazes drift back to each other. Playing at nothing happening between them for eight months suddenly becomes a _lot_ less easy and he has to allow himself a few moments of heavy silence to soak it in. While occasionally glancing at the proceedings around them Bane's eyes flick back his way, not outright staring but clearly _wanting_ to. It's the closest he's ever seen him shy.

"...The beard is nice." He eventually says, when the silence starts sliding from comfortable to frustrating. The man follows this up with a deeper drink of his wine, leaning one side against the wood backing. He has a hard time hunching forward with his brace, so Robin makes up for it by leaning his elbows onto his knees and closing the gap.

"Well, thanks. Glad _someone_ thinks so." His skin is growing pleasantly tight, something like butterflies bubbling up in the well of his stomach. "They keep telling me it's not thick enough."

"They are encouraging your best work, I think." His eyes flick down and across, roaming along his stubble appreciatively, then return to the crowd. Still playing up like he's not feeling awkward, though the delightful roughness of his voice is more than a little telling.

"Still not going to grow your hair out?" Robin teases.

"Have you _noticed_ the weather?" He rebukes, dry as ever, and sips his drink daintily, as if to punctuate the remark. He doesn't even know what color his hair is, though judging by the thick hair between his legs it was likely dark, maybe wavy. He can't imagine the guy could grow an even beard with all that scar tissue. Bane never seemed too worried about how he looked (aside from making his visual statements back as a leader of the League), but he thinks he'll refrain from teasing on this front.

"Fine, fine. It's going to get cold, though. You'll be thinking about this conversation in a month." Robin's shirt collar has been stuck to his skin and he's pretty sure he's pitting out _again_. He pushes back the hair starting to cling to his hairline, the tickle of moisture moving on his brow. Before it can move down his cheek Bane reaches out and slowly thumbs it away. It must be the alcohol having him lose his hold on time, because all he does is blink and they're closer, the breeze barely able to make it through the little pocket of space left between them, and he's fixating on the tangle of scars knitting Bane's mouth.

"...Are you going to kiss me or what?" He murmurs. Instead of a quick response Bane runs a slow tongue over his lips. His hand drifts down from his face to rest on his thigh, warm as a second heartbeat.

"...I was going to ask." God, his voice is so _low_. So smooth. Robin has always loved how it can lilt like a song -- strange and high one moment, a drawling purr the next.

"Fuck that." He retorts, shaking his head without breaking his gaze. "Fuck _that_ , you don't have to ask."

"Yes, I _do_." There it is, that rasp that gets right under his skin and makes him shiver, even without the mask's filter. It's as commanding as ever, a curt reminder for him to listen, but the longing heat in his eyes makes him want to melt. "I've had my fill of mistakes."

"What you did wasn't a mistake." Robin stresses, reaching up to close this infuriating gap and finally touch his chest. "Not entirely. I _know_ that now."

"And this won't be. Entirely. So I will ask." Behnam's so close he can count the darker specks in his gray eyes. Close enough he can taste the wine on his breath. "May I?"

"Yes." He holds onto his coat like an anchor. "Please."

"Behnam?"

 _Fucking..._ Robin sighs sharply through his nose and drops his forehead onto Bane's shoulder. Miriam is peering at them from around the gate. Damn it all, she and Joel would make one _hell_ of a cockblocking tag team. He can sense a similar frustration in the man's tense shoulders, but his voice is nothing but soft when he addresses the little girl. She seems happy with whatever answer he gives and immediately skips out of sight to where the music is still pounding. Bane calls to her repeating back once more, then murmurs against his ear.

"A moment."

He chuckles appreciatively when Robin glowers up at him, reaching across to give his leg a firm, lingering squeeze before following the girl back to the fire and leaving him to feel _twice_ as crazy as before. Barsad finds him not-quite-fuming a few minutes later and hands him one of the freshly fried treats he'd missed out on.

"...You know, I was worried." The man tells him, holding a glass of fermented milk (which he's sure tastes just fine, but he just can't bring himself to try it). "Was starting to think _both_ of you disappeared."

"Miss us already?" Robin asks, sighing as he works his way through the donut. He must be getting older, or more astute or something, because the flicker in Barsad's eyes suggest the statement wasn't entirely a joke. "Hey, I shouldn't have-"

"John Blake...I'm glad we met." He interrupts, gently, and holds a hand out to him. "...and I'm sorry for clocking you in the head, in retrospect."

"I'm not." Robin grins, and clasps his hand fiercely. "Thanks for not using a bullet." He finishes the rest of his treat, licking the rest off his fingers -- it was the perfect amount of oily and sweet. "These are amazing, by the way."

"Aiym." Barsad says with a nod. "You'll never have to worry about running out of those, after what you did."

Marat peers around the gate (that of which he's coming to accept as his very own antithesis to continued conversation) and coyly asks if she can steal Barsad away. Robin lets out a long-suffering sigh and waves a hand, much to their barely concealed amusement, and smiles to himself once they're out of sight. The music carries on, blending into the crackle of the fire and chatter of voices, and a rare, peaceful weight settles over him. That old, fat sheepdog slinks around the gate a few minutes later, fur rumpled with the aftermath of constant pets. It sniffs his leg, once, then slumps by his feet with a _whuff_.

"...I hear you, buddy." Robin says, giving its ears a ruffle. "Party's nice, but I think I'll tuck in, too."

He excuses himself after a round of hugs and heads back up to Bane's home. He has an hour until he comes home, maybe two, so he takes his time washing up. Robin braves the chilly water and rinses off the sweat and grime of the day, then idles over the state of his beard in the mirror (it was plenty enough, what were they even talking about) before fingercombing his hair. The prospect of holding Bane close again...actually _holding_ him and kissing him...it's getting him so excited he's starting to veer right back into nauseous again.

What was he going to do after this? He found him. That was incredible in of itself. But where were they going to _go_ from here? A long-distance relationship was possible, but their lives were both busy _and_ dangerous. A more familiar resoluteness squares his shoulders. It won't be easy, but that didn't mean it wasn't worth it.

A glance out the tiny window in the middle of brushing his teeth and he can see a burly silhouette making its way through the evening blue. It's all he can do not to rush right back out.

Robin's excitement dwindles down to a tiny, fearful note in his gut when he walks outside and sees much closer the painful hitch in his step. When the man walks onto the porch he takes a moment to lean against the doorway to catch his breath, a sharp sheen to his skin that has little to do with the weather. A hand held in the air keeps him quiet.

"I am fine. It is just... _trying_ , at times." He jerks his head over one shoulder, then straightens and rolls his neck with slow, hitching movements. "Mm. The hills."

"Yeah. No kidding. Dancing probably didn't help. ...Does this hurt, too?" Robin gestures to his mouth. Bane stretches his neck with one last _pop_ and sighs sharply.

"Yes, but to a lesser degree. When I am not attempting to chew difficult mutton, that is." His eyes follow when Robin closes the gap, voice trailing down to a rumble. "I try not to rely on alcohol over much, but...it has helped." His gaze roams up and down, picking up on his grooming easily. "Did you want...?"

"I do, definitely-" He starts, trying and completely failing to sound overeager. "-but I don't want to push your limits." Bane shakes his head, almost wonderingly.

"I appreciate the concern, John...but this a hurt I can live with."

"Pft." He feels the beginning of a smile breaking through the worry. "You calling me a pain, then?"

"I'm calling you..." He says as he steps into his space. "...one of the greatest agonies of my life."

Well, shit. Robin swallows hard and takes a few slow steps backwards as Bane looms up and over him, shedding off his jacket with a shrug, then rolling his shirt up and over his head. Coming undone one motion at a time. He flicks his top to one side and pushes a gentle hand on his stomach, the other tugging the door shut. Once they're properly alone he promptly hooks two fingers in the waistline of his jeans and tugs him right back. Back to up close and personal in less than a breath.

"Now." He murmurs. "May I?"

Robin's sure his heart is going to beat a hole right through his chest. He reaches out and runs his hands up his bare pecs, as broad and smooth as he remembers, then moves his fingers up his thick neck to ghost along his lips. His palms are singing from the contrast of his smooth cheeks and tangled mouth, and for a few moments it's all he can do to just... _stare_. Gaze into those soulful eyes that captured him from the first moment they met, trail along the newer details that still haven't sunk in all the way. His nose, both long and wide. The full mouth, almost pouty. The strong chin broken up by old violence.

"... _Fuck_ , Bane." He whispers. "I missed you."

Bane takes that as the permission it is and cradles his face between both hands. As delicately as he would hold a moment. Their names might've changed, their places and their communities, but the way he kisses him is just as _hungry_ as he remembers. Robin hooks his arms around his neck, buries nails into the back of his shoulders. He has to remind himself of his new relationship with painkillers and not to bite too hard, even as Bane's lips grow deliciously swollen the more they press and suck away at each other.

The kiss makes sense of _all_ the emotions that still feel clumsy in his chest. The sentiments that couldn't possibly be turned into words and _fuck_ him if he even tried. They're not so much kissing as gasping each other in, shared gulps of air after being submerged for _far_ too long. One of Bane's hands reaches up to fist in his hair, the other curving gently around the back of his neck, trying to urge him closer, somehow, and _God_ he tries. There's a shivering note building in the back of his throat, a low keening he's never heard from him before.

Every time words rise up through him, " _I love you._ " or " _Never fucking leave me again._ ", they melt right back down into the aching heat in the pit of his stomach. Bane's hands are a constant distraction, dragging rough up his sides, sinking down to grip and knead at his ass. Robin ruts into his palms and enjoys each throaty moan he gets in response, escaping like steam from a vent every time the man angles his mouth away to snatch a quick breath. They're slowly going crazy and Robin wants nothing more than to completely lose himself to insanity.

If they did little else but kiss he's sure he'd be satisfied, but he's already been given a very vivid permission to go further. A surge of lust shoots through him and he shoves him back, though the man remains as stout as a brick wall and only just hits the wall, Even then, a hitching sound in the back of his throat breaks through the haze.

"Shit. Shit, was that your back..." Robin breathes, pulling back to look at him while still holding onto his shoulders, his head still swimming and threatening to send him to the floor early. "Wasn't looking where I was going-"

"Manageable." Bane nips his ear sharply. It's such a _severe_ growl into his hair Robin laughs in spite of himself. "It is manageable. I will keep the brace on for now."

"God, you said the _same_ shit in the mountains." Robin sighs when Bane takes his earlobe between his teeth and sucks. "Glad to see you've worked on that stubbornness all this time."

"Now, now. I said _manageable_ , not negligible." Bane, to his shock and delight, actually _grins_. With his already expressive eyes it lights up his face, probably the first time he's ever looked at him and thought 'youthful', and takes his breath away. "Your grasp on details tonight is flimsy at best."

"Oh, kiss my _ass_ already, I've had two things of vodka." Bane gives him a faux-disapproving look and he responds by running his tongue along his jaw, right between two of the knotted bumps. The man growls appreciatively and returns the favor, tilting his head to bite his lower lip and hold on for a few hungry seconds. Robin's hip decides, then and there, to buckle on him.

" _Fuck._ " He hisses, leaning on his other leg and shaking dangerously. "Are you fucking serious?"

"John-"

"No. _Hell_ no, are you kidding me." He takes his hand and heads toward his bedroom, much more carefully this time. "Let's work something out."

Bane's soft _hum_ might be a _little_ smug as he lets himself be guided deeper into his room, halting at the doorway only to tug the laces on his boots and pull them off. Robin is already kicking his own away, rolling off his socks with a desperate speed. They fumble out of their clothes, unable to bear being away for less than a second, kissing and biting and urging each other close with every spare movement as they make short work of the last remaining boundary between them. Robin bends over to dig around in his suitcase, then realizes he left it in the _other_ room in his haste.

He's hissing in frustration, but Bane is already heading to the door.

"Wait, I got the-"

"Supplies?" Bane finishes, crooking a smile over his shoulder, eyes as dark and sweet as that Kazakh wine. When he returns, though, as quick as ever...something in his expression cracks. He makes his way over to him smoothly enough, but Robin was nothing if not keen when it came to regret. He's looking at him much like he did at the Gotham mountains. Like he hardly believes he's real.

"...Hey." If he could count on anything without a shadow of a doubt, it was Bane rising to a challenge. He reaches up to cup his chin, turning the man's attention away from the past for a second. "Just make up for lost time, okay?"

That does it. He rises to his full height, looming over him, eyes hooded low with purpose. His heart is hammering like a drum beneath his hands as Bane urges him back toward the bed. The man might have lost a little weight, but he still was taller _and_ stronger than him by a mile -- it takes him barely an effort to push him down onto the mattress. Bane takes his earlobe between his teeth again when he leans up and over him, breath a blissful hiss in his ear. His massive hands fan out and grip his ass, as much as he can, though he's still careful not to put pressure on his bad hip. Robin, likewise, is still careful not to bite his mouth too hard. Bane insists in-between kisses he's not made of paper.

"I might be, though." Robin snorts. He means it as a jibe, but Bane's face instantly hardens. "Hey, it's fine, just-"

"Over."

"I was just joking-"

" _Over_."

Robin huffs and lets himself be nudged and shifted until they're laying side-by-side, his back flush against Bane's chest and their legs in a tangle. It's just like the second time they had sex, where they had moved to the more relaxed and somehow more terrifying arena of taking one's _time_ , and he tries to remember the distant wisdom of that memory as they curl together, Bane's cock a familiar heat between his thighs. It's the warm pattern of his hand pushing him forward, though, that makes him pause.

Robin's skin twitches pleasantly as he marvels at the tattoo between his shoulderblades -- a single bird. He can tell by the rough trail of his fingers Bane is studying how it's composed of many, smaller ones locked together in eternal flight. It was a complex commission, one he had to pass along _three_ separate artists until he found one willing to take on the challenge. Never mind saving up for the effort. Robin couldn't lay down properly for nearly two weeks, but it was worth it. A minute later his lips meet it in a bumpy rhythm. Robin lets his chin fall sink against his chest, enjoying the drag of Bane's mouth along his spine.

"You got another...." He murmurs, mouthing the curve of his shoulderblade and letting his tongue tickle the skin. " _Beautiful_."

He shifts up to better pepper kisses along the round of his shoulder, one hand slipping down the small of his back to slip between him and rub in slow circles. Robin twists his neck just in time to see him nibbling a scar on his lip in barely concealed eagerness. He opens his mouth to say something about it, he's surprised to see he did that _too_ , but the man is already taking advantage of him being closer and kissing him deeply. Urging him to be patient without a word. Robin rocks against him to let him know exactly what he thinks of _that_.

" _Hm_."

The _click_ as he opens up his spare lube bottle, the initial shock of warm skin into hot as he works in a quick finger. It's somehow the best and worst instant relief of his _life_.

"Another." He gasps when he brushes up _right_ where he needs him.

Bane chuckles against his mouth, scars stretching into a grin as he works in another, then another. Inching him apart with warm, easy strokes. Robin lifts his leg to give him better access, eyes rolling back in his head and jaw dropping open as he hooks his fingers and presses where the ache is growing unbearable. His hip complains as he starts to rock against the pressure, but _fuck_ he needs him and he needs him _now_.

"John." He chides, right on time. "There's no _rush_." He's growling convincingly enough into his hair, but he can feel his impatience starting to leak onto his thighs. "You've strained yourself enough as it is-"

"Oh, just _fuck_ me already." Robin growls back, butting his head up beneath the man's chin, determined to shred his self-control to pieces. "You said yours is manageable, mine is manageable too, just-"

"So goddamn _impatient_ -" He's already got him cursing. Robin can hardly swallow back a feverish whimper as Bane buries his face in the crook of his neck and shoulder, breath rasping into his skin as he coats himself from base to tip with shaky strokes. "If I hurt you _now_ I would never forgive myself-"

"You're not going to _hurt_ me, I want this, I fucking need this-"

"Damn it all-"

" _Bane_ -"

Bane spreads him open and _thrusts_ into him, one hard push, and their argument stutters abruptly to a halt.

A mangled moan into his hair. His own heating the sheets as Robin grinds his forehead into the bed, face twisted with his aching hip and Bane rocking in and out, suddenly too thick and just perfect and not nearly deep _enough_. He _whines_ when the man curls over his back and leans into him, the pressure of his cock switching to a savage _press_ so abruptly he's crying out. He tries to rut back against him, as much as he can half-pinned and tangled up, and Bane responds by sinking his nails into the curve of his ass to thrust harder, then _faster_.

The leftover sun is bleeding into the room, a muted shift from gold to orange, and Robin flashes back to a non-memory of Bane with another name. A hotel room in another city, another life, where his name was the same and his world was entirely different. He pushes his damp forehead to Bane's cheek, watches through hazy eyes the way his mouth parts with gasp after gasp before biting his lip and sucking him closer. He can feel the man's groan more than hear it, a vibration that soaks through his mouth and drums his heart into a flutter. Dreams didn't _compare_.

...but that doesn't stop the fear from emerging. Crane's work was uniquely cruel and he'd had more than enough encounters with it to still dread a resurgance months later. It wasn't anything like a basic nightmare that'd leave him in a cold sweat and be brushed off over morning coffee, no, it dangled potential lives, maybe _real_ ones, in front of a person's nose just to yank it higher. If it were happening again...if it _could_...

"I'm not dreaming." He whispers, partially to himself, partially to Bane, a confession _and_ an entreaty. "I'm not dreaming any of this up."

"John." He soothes into his skin, unstartled because this is _Bane_ , a man more than a little familiar with madness. He dapples sticky kisses along his cheek. "I'm here...I'm here."

"Sometimes I still _worry_ , that none of it's real, that it's just a fucking dream I'll never get out of..."

Bane _hums_ against the side of his throat, running his tongue along his Adam's apple, then he fists a sharp hand in the back of his hair without warning and tugs his head back. Robin's in the middle of a gasp when he sinks teeth into the crook of his neck and shoulder. He yelps, then _groans_ when he kneads further into the bruising flesh and marks his way right back to where he used to be. Tender to savage, just like that.

"Fuck!" He writhes against his teeth, reaching an arm around to steady him, stop him, he's completely unsure. " _Ah-_ "

"You're here, love." Bane pulls out abruptly, only to push him over onto his stomach and lay heavy along his back. "With _me_."

Before Robin can keep up he's shoving himself back in,  _pounding_ , a brutal pace that barely gives him room to breathe. The friction of his cock between his stomach and the sheets is too harsh, it almost _hurts_ , but Bane's stream-of-consciousness in his ear is softer than cotton.

"Sweeter than any dream I've had." Robin thinks he hears him say when he comes in an explosive, dizzying rush. Finally losing his mind. "I could _never_..."

Then Bane is groaning and sinking his forehead into his shoulder to lose himself, too.

\--

It's fully dark less than an hour later, the air outside filtering through the half-open windows in a proper breeze. Not quite cool, not quite warm. They're exhausted afterwards, but the desire to be clean is a powerful instinct for them both and they eventually end up back in his cramped washroom. Robin doesn't mind taking his second shower of the day (even if it's still cold as _hell_ ) and they're practically leaning on each other when they make their way back to bed. Despite being bone weary, fucked out and still buzzed, they lay awake and talk.

"''m still not used to seeing your face..." Robin mutters, sandwiched between the thick homemade blanket and Bane's warm torso. His body is coated in aching notes and he's sure they'll be an impressive sight come morning.

"Mm. I've said this to my reflection many a time." Sex and alcohol have Bane almost sounding almost sluggish, eyes low-lidded and posture slouched comfortably against the fat pillows bunched between the wall's corner and mattress. His eyes drift shut when Robin runs another slow, appreciative hand along his mouth. Some scars are bumpy, almost knotted, while others are smooth. Pale, stretched notes against the light brown.

"Makes me think of your knitting..."

Bane's eyes blink back open, slowly, then he smiles, as pleased as he's ever seen him.

"Where did you put it?" He asks. Something like that would fetch a mean price online, but he keeps that remark to himself.

"It's stored, with some of my personal belongings." His gaze turns dark. Almost mischievious. "Why? Do you wish to try it on?"

"No. That a new kink?" Robin drawls. "So you told me why you picked Gotham...why'd you pick a little village in Kazakhstan? Or is that also a long story?"

"It could be, if you wished." He sniffs. "We had discussed another hideout for the League Of Shadows many months back. I didn't want to hole up hundreds of mercenaries, technicians and medics in some remote part of the world like Ra's did. This method works for some, yes, but after living in Gotham...I wanted a more familiar method. Perhaps this was my way of making up for all my isolation...good _and_ bad." Bane yawns carefully, minding his damaged jaw. "I still hole myself up here sometimes. They tell me I hibernate like a bear, Aiym and Serik both..."

"And swim like one." Robin grins. "You know, Bane is just _one_ letter off from bear." He squirms when the man takes a lock of his hair and tugs.

"Love, you keep calling me Bane. It would behoove you to maintain my identity."

It's a gentle admonishment. Robin pushes his face into his hand like a cat, turning whatever follow-up sentence he had into a sputtering laugh. He's feeling loopy and spontaneous, still quivering from their shared high, and he nips playfully at his thumb. Bane steadies him with one hand and catches his mouth easily, holding him in place by his chin and pulling him close to breathe him in again. They don't talk for another few minutes.

"...Mm. Right, okay. Behnam." He says, sounding it out, then chuckling at the absurdity of it all...if absurdity made complete sense, that is. The man's eyes narrow and his head tilts, curious. He waits patiently as he gets his laughter under control. "Oh, no, it's just funny. You have this new life and new name and...ha. So do I." He grins. "Robin. My name is Robin. You can call me John or Rob or Robin or whatever, I don't care..."

"How about 'impatient'?"

"Deal."

"How can it be a deal if you offered me no leverage?"

"No idea." He laughs. Bane rolls his eyes and chuckles, mouth crooked sleepily in the dim moonlight through the windowpane.

They fall asleep in the middle of a conversation about shaving cream, of all things, one he's sure they continue somewhere in the depths of their dreams.

\--

Sometimes life is easier. Behnam calls them 'gentle days'.

The once-famous mercenary always wakes up early, something that has absolutely _not_ changed, and adheres closely to a ritual. He commits to a series of intense stretches once he's out of bed, turns on the news on low volume and brews a pot of Earl Grey before the sun starts to peek through the blinds. The first time Robin shuffles into the kitchen he finds he has two entire cupboards devoted to different types of tea while trying to suss out where the seasonings are.

Training is a daily routine and the regular kids (and a few of the adults) are _endlessly_ tickled Robin is more sleepy than they are. He loves how attentive the village children are (with a pair of mischievous tweens reminding him solidly of the Swithin's boys) and they're always giving as good as they get -- they don't hold back when he steps into the ring and sometimes leave him panting with exertion, though they're sorely disappointed when he's able to soundly block every punch and kick they throw his way. Just because he has a bum hip doesn't mean he's _incompatent_.

Bane had once told Blake he didn't want to remain in Gotham too long and 'become a savior'. That the best way to help others was to give them the means to help themselves. Hell, Robin had about told _him_ as much when he showed up at St. Swithin's (without an invite, still utterly ridiculous in hindsight). He may no longer be the leader of the League Of Shadows, but his influence in the village was clear. He was respected here. Maybe even loved.

Robin is sure to show off when he faces off against the adult trainees and shares some of his first-hand knowledge. Behnam's eyes never leave him and he makes sure to drive the point home with a meticulous stretch here or a flashy takedown there. It's easy to tell when this little sideshow works because mere minutes after everyone's wrapped up Behnam will tug him somewhere private and makes short work of his clothes. They're always slippery with sweat before they find somewhere private and even worse afterwards, and they cool off beneath the outside shower once they're spent, lazily muttering into each other's skin as they scrub off the day's exertion.

Behnam kisses him whenever possible. His shoulder when he's making eggs in the tiny kitchen. His hair when he's falling asleep. His neck in-between training sessions. It would be a while before he'd make up for all the times he wasn't able to, but he was clearly eager to catch up.

Some days are hard.

Sometimes herbal tinctures, physical therapy routines and basic painkillers just aren't enough for the chronic pain and Behnam will be all but bedridden from morning 'til night. He _hates_ it, even as he's used to it by now, so Robin does his best to take the edge off of these days by reading and sewing with him. These slow hours end up being some of their favorites. Behnam notes the irony once when he corrects his stitching for the third time, then asks him to pass the vodka. Unlike Robin he had a secret sweet tooth, one he indulged in more frequently when his back was at its worst.

"You should know by now I'm not _always_ impatient and restless." Robin tells him while in the middle of creating one of many scarves for the village kids -- his first two were pretty pathetic, but the third one almost looks nice. Summers were brutal and, according to everyone, winters even more so. It was nice to actually be familiar with _something_ around here.

"A solar eclipse occurs once every year and a half or so, yes." Bane responds, not looking up from his work, and Robin resists the urge to smack him.

Days later he comes home from an excursion near the Astana borders, twitching with irritation and a dark, frigid look on his face. While Robin always thinks he's beautiful, the scars take on a decidedly more unsettling appearance when he's angry -- his knuckles are bruised a violent purple and both his boots _and_ jeans are caked with mud. He doesn't need to ask to know what (or _who_ ) he and the other members ran into on the way. Looking after the village and 'crafting a slow, positive impact to ripple the world over', in Behnam's words, was always going to be a hard job.

Any fear he has that he got injured melts away when Behnam yanks off his coat and starts stretching, showing the tension lining his back and something far worse in his eyes. He brews himself tea and doesn't speak and eventually hunches at the dining room table for some time, staring out into the expanse beyond his window.

"...More plans to invade. A group of day laborers with the goal to 'take back' some of the children under the cover of night." He eventually explains, to Robin's horror, twisting the teabag string between his fingers like it's the only thing keeping him from flipping over the table. It feels like years since he encountered that cold wrath. Even though it's not aimed at him, it's nervewracking. "I gave them reason to reconsider."

A dark cloud follows him for hours afterwards. It's nothing he can shake off with a few jokes or even a long talk, he knows, but that doesn't stop him from trying. Robin finds him twisting a round of knot in his hands in his room later that night and works up the small courage it takes to push it out of his lap and focus his attention elsewhere. He cradles him in his mouth and works him as slow and wet as possible, until all the tension is melting from his body and the only sighs coming out of him are the two syllables in his old, new name.

Some days feel...impossible.

Reilly's passing is a duller ache almost a year later, but like a bad knee in the rain his absence will suddenly flare and Robin will be completely lost. No amount of digging in his mental health toolbox or distracting himself will make him want to see him any _less_ and he'll have no choice but to let it pour out of him, one agonizing gut punch at a time. Behnam finds him sitting on the porch, muffling his grief into his knees at some ungodly hour of the morning. Still loud enough to wake the neighbors, a pair of whom wander up the path and mill near the porch to mutter concerned words he doesn't understand. The man explains something to them that makes them retreat back down the hill, then sits down.

He says a lot of things he regrets. Already he can feel his mind attempting the very rare, shameful blurring of memory, pushing away the ugly details and hyperfocusing on anything else. Denial never suited him well, though, and he knew he'll feel the nauseous pull of his ugly accusations at odd hours. Those statements he wishes he could erase for good.

"Got my fucking closure in the hospital, got to say good-bye literal _hours_ before he couldn't hold on anymore, then you _fucked off_." He screams down at the man, standing on the porch steps and probably waking up the neighbors all over again. "I needed you. I goddamn needed you! You fucked off, then you fucked off _again!_ Sooner or later everyone fucking leaves me and I never thought in a million years it would be you, too!"

Behnam weathers this abuse silently, with the utmost composure, because he's always been _used_ to pain, and Robin hates hates _hates_ himself for indirectly reminding him why he should be. Somewhere amid the blubbering and raging he apologizes. The man just pulls him back up onto the porch, holds him firm against his chest and pets his hair until he doesn't have the energy to howl anymore.

"Are you going to visit Lael someday?" Robin asks him late the next night, or very early in the morning, the only thing he's able to see in the darkness the hump of Behnam's broad shoulder. He never understood how the man was a morning person _and_ a night owl, but it was always good news for his unexpected encounters with insomnia. He uses a sleep apnea mask on-and-off to help him rest more soundly -- Robin thinks he probably should've tried that _years_ ago.

"Why do you ask?" It's not accusatory. Just curious. Robin lets honesty simmer in him a moment before answering. The only thing he can hear is the _click_ of insects just outside the window and the light rasp of Behnam's breath against the mask -- the former noise is a little odd to his city ears, but the latter sound fills him with nostalgia.

"I've been recently diagnosed with baby fever." Behnam huffs a sleepy laugh at that. "I also want...want to look forward to family. Not dwell on it being fractured." Robin sighs. "Shit, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. She's...your granddaughter and you no doubt have your reasons."

It's selfish. All the time in the world hasn't been able to scrub away the sour shame he _still_ feels over throwing Talia's pregnancy in his face back when they came to blows. The fact the baby came out premature and sickly must've been salt in the wound. Behnam doesn't seem to interpret it that way, though.

"You would take her in as family." It's not a question. "Always everyone's big brother."

"Wouldn't it be closer to father?" He hedges, without thinking, and immediately freezes up. Behnam pauses and mulls this over, pushing a slow, idle hand along his hip and not speaking for a few very, very long minutes.

"...Yes. Yes, I...believe it would." Robin lets out the sigh he's holding, relieved and a little giddy now that it's out into the open. He feels it threatening to come right back at what he says next. "Do you want to be a father?"

"Sort of. I mean...I wanted to at one point. Then it just sorta fell to the wayside when I aged out and started looking after my boys." He smiles, knowing Bane can likely see it. "I'm definitely more used to being a big brother, that's for sure."

"Mm. Well...I won't see her until I can guarantee myself as a positive presence. When I think of her I still think of Talia. Of her...grandmother. These old wounds ache too much and she deserves to be more than another scar. A living reminder of those I knew." He reaches up and rubs the straps on his mask. "I want to. I will."

"When you're ready, you should. You have _so_ much to offer her." Robin thinks of Joel's mother, of his own grandmother, and all the ways they blamed themselves for not being able to _be_ there even though they couldn't. For a merciful moment there's no twist to his chest. Just a conviction he wants to share. "You're not a failure for knowing your limits. This is a responsible decision you're making and I know you'll work hard to be part of her life."

He feels Behnam nodding, but there's a miserable slowness to the motion that dips their shared pillow.

"...Hey..." He reaches over to him. "You all right?"

"I just...want to hold her."

"Yeah." He's never heard his voice sound so small before. Robin fixes his gaze at the deeper patch of dark over the man's shoulder as urges him close and holds him tight. "...Yeah."

His first Kazakhstan summer is also the shortest. It normally gets colder earlier, Marat tells him once over a shared lunch on her porch, and climate change was surely to blame -- it was one of the furthest things he knew about, so he listens with rapt attention as she describes all the different factors that would lead to a season being put off. She's fascinated to hear about Gotham, which he describes being twice as big as Astana and twice as ugly (that last comment making Barsad cough into his food).

He finds this out after taking Salim's place on a scouting run. The village was gaining a supernatural reputation for not being fucked with thanks to the subtle and constant efforts of the League, but it was still a new foundation. A single misstep could see the entire place falling apart. When the League's top sniper is down with the flu he doesn't hesitate to step up and take his place -- while he wasn't nearly as good of a shot, he'd hedge a decent bet he'd have an easier time hitting his mark without a fever to get in the way. Salim complains, but even he can't argue against that logic for long.

The heft of a rifle feels invigorating in his hands. The chill breeze on his face even more so. Aside from a truck that veers a little too close to the village it's a relatively uneventful run. That is, until they hit a surge of wind and rain on the way back. They end up delayed when one of the Jeeps ends up stuck in a surprise mud hole they have to work at for a good two hours before it pops free.

Behnam is about as expressive as marble when he greets them later that evening, but he knows the man was worried _sick_.

He's not the leader of the League anymore, at most a member with seniority, but everyone reports to him anyway, apologizing for the delay and filling him in on what they saw. The man peels off his wet jacket and urges him to warm up inside, but there's a betraying dip to his chin when he retreats back into the kitchen. Robin mops up water from his hair, changes out of his wet socks, then tries to think of the best way to broach the pain that's filled the house like a fog.

"...Hey. I'm sorry." He finally manages to say, not nearly enough, and presses a hand to the small of his back when he doesn't look up from his work. He's chopping vegetables with trembling hands, a tremble he knows isn't from the lowered painkillers, and for a moment he's afraid he'll cut himself. "Looks like Kazakhstan weather and I still have a few things to work out."

"Mm. A taste of..." Behnam starts, then he suddenly swallows and leans both hands against the counter, staring at the sweet potatoes and onions on the cutting board like it's as complex as his needlework. "...my o-own medicine."

The man who used to be known as Bane, fearsome masked mercenary and iconic exhibitionist, stutters on the words and sounds like he's _choking_ on them. God, maybe it _was_ , but that didn't make him feel any better. Robin gently takes the knife out of his hand, lays it on the counter and turns the man around by his shoulders. Behnam buries his face in the crook of his neck, as vulnerable as that distant night when he was pissed on vodka, and Robin loses track of the time swaying them gently in place, muttering comfort into his cheek and trying his best to cradle the man's entire hard life in his arms.

"I love you." Behnam doesn't mind him touching his scar, as long as he's gentle, and he lets the heel of his thumb glide over it again and again as he strokes the back of his head. "I love you so _much_."

Robin gets to see a thunderstorm much closer than he ever thought he'd like that same night. It's hard to hold onto _too_ much resentment for the way it battered his day when he sees the steep wall of dark clouds and flashes of light at a _breathtaking_ distance. With few buildings or trees to get in the way it's a damn light show. They watch the snap and flash of the weather together with a shared blanked over their shoulders, bowls of soup warming their laps. He still apologizes by leaning over and kissing away the stray droplets of rain that make it beneath their cover.

They'll be saying sorry for a while, but that's okay.

The days are long and slow and gentle and impossible and suddenly over. All Robin did was blink and he wakes up in the morning with an e-mail reminder telling him his plane will be arriving soon. He'd delayed once already and was _just_ starting to recover from the guilt of Barbara chipping in extra cash for his stay on top of his apologetic phonecalls to Victor.

They play a few rounds of chess over a breakfast of goat sausage and tomatoes. After mulling over recent news in Kazakhstan they switch to a rather animated discussion about which pieces represent them best -- Robin nearly loses track of his strategy when the man eventually compares him to a knight. He was completely expecting him to say a pawn.

"Pawns are deceptive, yes, and represent how big things come in small packages." Behnam agrees, chin in his hand and the other reaching for his tea. "But I believe a knight would be more apt."

"Come on. You're not going to make a joke about me being the _next_ dark knight, are you?" Robin moves his bishop. "Amir already beat you to it."

"Too easy. I was _insinuating_ you are a respectable wild card and travel unconventional paths." He explains as he sips his drink, dark eyes narrowing over the rim of his cup. "...You also chose the wrong one on B4."

"Pft. You sure about that?" Robin retorts, though he's squinting at the board and racking his brain trying to think of a way to get out of the sudden chokehold he's ended up in. "Well, you're like a rook. Nothing gets in your way and you're built like a brick house."

"Both true." Behnam snorts.

They wind up at a stalemate when it's time to head out. Behnam promptly takes the board and sets it above and away where the pieces won't be disturbed.

"We'll have to continue this another time." He murmurs, giving the white knight one last, fond touch.

"Lucky for you." Robin says around the hot lump growing in the pit of his throat. "Plenty of time to figure out the legendary Nightwing's killer move."

Bane lets out a soft scoff under his breath, but the look he casts over his shoulder is softer.

Gotham was waiting for him, as claustrophobic and violent as ever, and all his obligations with it. Victor was no doubt feeling the strain of being a one-man show, despite Robin's best efforts to keep up with the news and offer feedback, however remote. The moment he got back it was time to get down and dirty cleaning up the mess no doubt left by immigration patrol. If they're starting to show holes it might give them some wriggle room to rendezvous with Pamela again and start finally closing up the issue of all those missing persons in Waylon Jones' wake. Robin lets out a tired, yet resolute, sigh. No rest for the wicked.

Behnam's picked a heavier coat for the morning alongside his old brown boots, a rusty red with a thick wooly collar. It's a hint of who he used to be. Perhaps a little softer. They both stand out a bit, even in the breakneck hustle and bustle of Astana in the morning, and people give him an especially wide berth (if they're not staring openly at his face).

He stares for entirely different reasons when they arrive at the loading dock an hour early. While adjusting his collar Behnam glances his way and crooks a smile, gaze a calm contrast to the hectic rush surrounding them. He doesn't feel as such, though, when Robin buries his face in his shoulder and laments uselessly about never wanting to leave. The man's hand reaches up to pet fondly between his shoulderblades where his tattoo rests, a new tic he's developed over the past three weeks.

"I would have you stay, if it were up to me." He admits into his hair, kissing his scalp tenderly. "I never thought you would take so well to arid land."

"Ha. Fuck you, I'd follow you into the deep ocean if it came down to it."

" _Could_ you, though?" A mischiveous rumble lights up his chest. "Your doggy-paddle is admirable, but mistaken."

Robin shoves him, or tries, at least, and Behnam laughs hard enough for him to see a flash of teeth before he's tugging him firmly into another hug. He plays up being offended, squirming ineffectually and turning his head away from the following kiss, but the pretense doesn't last. Eventually they're burrowing against each other to work away the rest of the morning chill. Robin realizes he needs to start up another conversation before his plane arrives. If he doesn't he'll stay forever.

"You know, I never knew where that..." He glances around. Probably not a good idea to say 'bomb' in an airport, language barrier be damned. "...nuclear reactor ended up going to."

"I don't make promises I can't keep. I gifted it to Gotham and it will arrive soon enough." Behnam smiles slowly, as devious as an alley cat, and idly runs his fingers through his hair. "Barbara has proven herself rather promising, all things considered."

Robin gapes. Barbara?! _Oh._ How the hell he was he going to break _that_ to her? The man, however, is predictably unbothered and already talking about something else. He misses it completely and has to double back with great effort. They would definitely be talking about this later over a secure channel.

"...ncing."

"Sorry, what? You lost me."

"I've yet..." Behnam pauses deliberately, though his eyes are twinkling. "...to see you dance."

Right. He had a ripe opportunity when he first dropped by, but his leg was killing him at the time and he wasn't really in the mood to embarrass himself. He tries not to sound too snide reminding him of this.

"Of course." Behnam assures, tilting his head and raising one brow. "But now...?"

"Now I can embarrass myself smack dab in the middle of a foreign airport. Nothing left off the bucket list, huh?" He sighs and holds out a hand when Behnam doesn't budge. "Fine, fine. En garde or...whatever it is they say before a dance."

"I believe the saying is, 'May I have this dance?'," The man corrects, taking a step back, holding out one hand and bowing his head slightly. "You're ridiculous."

"Hey, I'm not the one asking for a tango before a flight."

They get a whole new set of stares as they take each other's hand and rotate in place, though Robin is more than happy to be led. Behnam dances like he fights -- commanding, controlled, but unhurried. A walking work of art, from his ability to crack a bone to his ease in comforting a crying child. Robin gazes up at him, helplessly heartsick, and hardly notices when he nearly trips twice. He's sunk so deep in the man's eyes he entirely misses the announcement of his flight. Behnam himself seems to jerk out of his stupor with some effort.

"Chess and dancing lessons." He murmurs, still holding on.

"It's a plan."

They make the somehow-short, somehow-long walk to the line. People are idling on their phones and murmuring under their breath as an announcement rings overhead. A plane takes off to his far right, rumble sounding off through the port. Robin fusses with the man's collar as they wait, tugging it up around his neck and adjusting the buttons. Trying to imprint every little detail before they're separated by an ocean and a rock.

"I want letters _and_ texts." He reminds him, for the third time. Behnam doesn't so much as scoff. "Videochat at every opportunity."

"Of course, love."

"Update me on everything." Robin stresses. "I don't care what it is."

"I will."

" _Everything._ "

"Even the color of my stool?"

"...Only _you_ could make a shit joke sound formal."

Behnam shrugs, like it can't be helped. Robin sneaks in another kiss right before it's his turn to scan his stub. He pushes through the cramped walkway as best he can and all but shoves his suitcase into place, less eager to sit down as he is to get one last look out the window. Behnam is just within view, his tall silhouette stark against the shorter travelers hustling and bustling around him. He waves farewell through the glass, then pushes his hands into his pockets. He stares out the window during the pilot's announcement and during the takeoff, right up until the clouds cover him from view.

Maybe a few years from now wanderlust will override his history with Gotham and lead him back here for good. Maybe they'd remain long-distance for the forseeable future and every reunion will be more emotional than the last. Whichever it ended up being, he would ride this second chance to its highest crest before being swept away. He would come back. A month later. Three months later. It didn't matter. They'd found the eye of the storm in their turbulent lives. A space where they could heal.

_Their calm beneath the waves._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _one does not simply rush the final posts of a very long fanfiction_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> also got another song shout-out in there and I will love you forever if you spot it
> 
> Phew. There was a _lot_ to wrap up in this chapter, big closure and little callbacks, hence why it took so long. I had to balance everything out between wrapping up certain details while still leaving some questions dangling in the air. Y'know. That thing life does. Anyway. I find it funny that one of my best done chapters is also the last one. Talk about a journey. 
> 
> A big fat thanks to all those who stuck around (holy crap, _seriously_ , some of you have been here since the very beginning!!!) and to those who have just picked this up recently. I've got a big, fat epilogue with all my mushy-gushy feelings when you hit that next chapter button.


	67. Epilogue

Geez. How the hell was I supposed to know a short fanfiction of a movie I kind of loved and kind of hated would end up being my longest published work to date?

I mentioned this in the beginning of the fic, but it's worth reiterating again -- 'The Calm Beneath The Waves' originally started in response to a Livejournal prompt back when The Dark Knight Rises came out. I typed up a few quick chapters, stashed it away in a Yahoo drafts folder and promptly forgot about it for a few years...until I pulled it open again while deleting old Internet accounts in a new apartment. Lo and behold, I was surprised by how _decent_ it still was and wanted to know where the story was going to go. It was a pretty generic way to start a fic, (particularly Bane and Blake, for that matter, where 80% of them start with a kidnapping of some sort), but that was part of the fun. This classic set-up had a thousand potential directions. It could go _anywhere_.

I started writing new chapters after a break-up and moving back in with my mother. This was also around the time my mental health took a _serious_ nosedive and I started facing my first real battle with depression. While I've always been mentally ill, this was the longest I'd ever gone through a depressive, occasionally suicidal period. 'The Calm Beneath The Waves' (as well as a few other as-of-now-unpublished fanfictions) proved _very_ useful therapy when I couldn't work up the will to do anything else. It kept me writing. It kept me exploring personal issues and not-so-personal issues. Week after week, month after month, I kept the story rolling because I needed _something_ to pour myself into when life wasn't filling me up.

I won't lie. It's been hard. But I'm still here.

Flash forward just over a year later and I've hit a staggering just-over-400,000 words including this epilogue. I mean, I've finished stories before -- one-shots, NaNoWriMo, drabbles -- but this is easily my longest work of fiction so far. I can't help but think back to my childhood days writing epic fantasy stories on the fly in my favorite Omni notebooks in pencil. What would my eleven year-old self think of me and my bloated action-adventure-smut now? probably would crow about how much easier it is to draft stories on the computer

One of my biggest goals with this story was to make it one of those 'full-package' tales. Sometimes stories are at their best when they're smaller, you know? Little slice-of-life stories. Others are good because they take a genre and fully _commit_ , like a bloodcurdling thriller or a tearjerking drama. I wanted this one to be everything and the kitchen sink -- romance, drama, action, science-fiction, mystery, even _tiny_ hints of magical realism. I also wanted to create a slow, organic relationship between Bane and Blake. Not without its difficulties, of course, and their myriad of issues, but an overall healthy romance to offset the... _surplus_ of the opposite.

I'm proud I experimented and took chances. I mean, 'The Calm Beneath The Waves' is flawed. It is very, _very_ flawed. The most obvious one on the list is that it's bloated. Re-reading my own work (I will sometimes flip through chapters on the bus to read with fresh eyes, like you do) I could have probably snipped out thirty or forty thousand words without losing the meat of the story. Seriously! Its set-ups fizzle out into lackluster pay-offs (if there are decent pay-offs at all) and it's clear I didn't fully commit to everyone's character arcs.

I juggle a dozen plotlines with varying degrees of success. Is it at all obvious how many things I wanted to explore but still didn't quite have the time or range to do so? I actually wanted Bruce Wayne to show up _more_ in the story, partially as a challenge to myself -- I've always found the Batman to be one of the _least_ interesting aspects of _any_ Bat-series, but I still have a way to go when it comes to feeling one way and writing another. I also wanted Talia to be a _touch_ more gray. Live and learn.

oh oh oh I have a frustrating tendency to use the noun 'the man' or 'the woman' when referring to people, sometimes multiple times in a paragraph, and it makes me want to chew my teeth out of my mouth!!!

Aaaaaaaaaaand what can I say, I'm _still_ proud of myself.

I actively practiced pacing. Plotting. Character arcs. Character voices. Creative approaches to different POVs. Unpredictable plot threads. Cliffhangers. Lead-ins. Updating regularly. Romance. Smut. Comedy. Suspense. Tragedy. All the stuff that reaches through the screen, into your chest and delicately plunders your heart for all its worth. As (wholly) messy as the story is I _still_ stuffed in a bunch of elements I find fascinating and turned it into a proverbial sandbox for me to play in -- alternate dimensions, dreaming, crime thriller escapades, you name it. I explored themes that are near and dear to me -- shifting through different public personas, guarding your true self, the cost of integrity, forgiveness, vengeance. Social issues. Identity. Trauma.

I really enjoyed jumping from different POVs, even if it did weigh down the pacing quite a bit. Bane's speech style, in particular, has been one of my favorite parts to write hands-down -- I've been told I speak rather formally myself, so every time I put fingers to keyboard it's glorious to feel fantasy and reality slamming together also bane is bae. I especially enjoy writing about nostalgia. Memories, dreams, times long past, you name it. It's a topic I find both pleasing and troubling because I get wistful _very_ easily, sometimes to the point of actually becoming depressed. Go figure, wrapping up this fanfiction  sort of is going to end up yet another fond, painful memory for me to ache over.

Shit, a special mention to all the incredible feedback I've received this whole time. I'm not exaggerating in the _slightest_ when I say a comment left on one of my fics will make my entire week. I'll squirm around in my chair and proceed to crow about it to all and sundry because, damn it all, art is _so_ wonderful. Knowing I'm having a positive effect on people with my constant daydreaming and obsessing over tropes and smut is just a cool fucking thing, all right? When someone takes time out of their day to tell me what they think, free from the ass-kissing constraints of what a face-to-face conversation could inspire, I'm just over the moon.

Whether this is your favorite fandom or an unexpected way to fill up your time, thank you so _much_ for leaving a comment, hitting that kudos button or just keeping a slice of my writing in your heart as you go about your day. I've got plenty more fanfictions to publish this year and, while they won't be _quite_ this long, I can't wait to share all the multi-chapter epics, one-shots and smutty goodness that's been brewing on my computer for months.

For those who are still a fan of this pairing and are chomping at the bit for new content -- gotta love those mid-tier rarepairs! -- I have a few tiny drafts for drabbles that continue this story as a little standalone series. I also have a separate and rather lengthy Bane/Blake one-shot that still needs a title. I can't guarantee when these'll be posted, but I'll fully admit I'm not quite ready to let 'The Calm Beneath The Waves' go. Hell, much less these two magnificent bastards I fell in love with when I saw The Dark Knight Rises in theaters, then _again_ when I stumbled upon a Livejournal group that asked the question of the ages:

"But what if they _smooched?_ "

Time to get back to writing!

(Also, a lovely, _lovely_ reader did fanart here and you should totally check it out: https://www.instagram.com/p/BdQUkkyjc-B/?taken-by=karudoodles )


End file.
